The Three Stages
by Madammortis
Summary: The end of the world is not something to be delayed by a minor inconvenience. Armageddon is geared for a do over and the storm what approaches leaves the forces of both Heaven and Hell out in the cold. Their last hope rests, ironically and begrudgingly, with the likes of two happily retired, wholly substandard former employees. Aziraphale x Crowley and Gabriel x Beelzebub pairings
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Clearly I do not own Good Omens. I am writing a fanfic. I have become part of the Good Omens hoarde. If anything, Good Omens currently owns me.

**A/N**: Hey everyone :) Please be advised that The Three Stages is currently going through a major face lift. I am in the process of separating and sub-dividing chapters, so that they are shorter, cleaner and far easier to get through in a single sitting. Because of all this shifting around, this means that current comments may contain spoilers.

As a person deeply fascinated and compelled by character relationships, particularly those that are a little more non-traditional, I found myself absolutely blown away by the crackling chemistry between the characters of Aziraphale and Crowley. (A great deal of credit goes of course to Michael Sheen and David Tennant for their brilliant portrayals. Holy shit boy, you blow that blue paint off of your boo's jacket. ... Did not mean for that to actually sound dirty).

Do I view the relationship between the characters as being romantic? Absolutely and unequivocally. I think the changing of the tides in Good Omens would open up some new doors of possibility and that is what I wanted to explore; the fact that great love can certainly exist in a relationship between two individuals that potentially defies definition. And also, you know... instigating a brand new Arma-Getter-DONE!

And so, after much ado about nothing; my first chapter! It sets a bit more of a light-hearted tone than the later chapters, which are a bit more serious but I hope that you enjoy all the same :)

* * *

**~Chapter one~**

**Or, the chapter in which Crowley gets addicted to hugging**

**~x~**

The Catholic Church would have you believe that there are three stages to demonic possession.

These are, as follows:

Infestation, Oppression and last, but certainly not least, Possession.

The reason that there are three, is because the Church is of the opinion that the number three is used by demons to mock the Holy Trinity. Whether this is true or not, I can't say. What I can say, with some certainty, is that when making a list, three is quite definitely a stronger number than two and yet not quite so as demanding with its expectations as is five. This isn't a list of New Years resolutions swiftly forgotten by the 3rd of January, after all.

The first stage of possession, _Infestation_, is all about the demon driving a hot nail into your soft spot. The knocking, the tapping, the image of the little girl or the message on the Ouija board from 'Grandma So-and-so' trying to tell you both who killed her and where she hid the inheritance money. Of course, someone in the group is invariably likely to be pushing the planchette; which is probably a good thing, considering the mischief actual demons have caused whence taking control of a séance themselves.

It may not end up with pea-soup and three-hundred and sixty degree spinal rotations but on one particular drunken night in Enfield, Crowley did vaguely remember causing a girl to levitate, speak in all manner of tongues and manifesting then as a crotchety old man who may or may not have lived in a particular house on Green street. The reason for his malignant lashing out because the poor girl had dine nothing other than accidentally smack her bag into the passenger side door of his Bentley when she had been running to catch the bus. It had left the slightest, near imperceivably to the naked eye, infinitesimal scratch but this was more than enough to incite in Crowley a rage comparable only to that of waking up during the night and stubbing your toe on something whilst trying to get to the bathroom. The fact that he could miracle it away with a mere brush of his finger was irrelevant. A lesson needed to be taught and on this occasion he was the one holding the pointer stick.

Aziraphale (having been the one to quite literally drag a drunken Crowley kicking and screaming away from 284 Green Street) had not been at all amused by the matter. It had interfered with his supper for one. Crowley (once sufficiently sobered up and satiated with some calmative tablet Aziraphale had all but crammed down his throat) had been quick to leap to his own defence; citing the media attention was only likely to benefit the family in the long run, so no real harm done (more's the pity) and everyone got on with their lives. As it was, the reticent cycle of that drunken evening out was set to line the pockets of some very savvy film producers many years down the track. If only a demon could claim creative licensing and take a modest chunk of the resultant proceeds, but there you have it. Theirs was a thankless work, at times.

The second stage, _Oppression,_ was typically considered to be when folks started acting out. Verbalizing, screaming and hissing, thrashing, levitating, hurting themselves and others. Generally thought to be a battle between the mind of the invading demon and the mind of the host body. An assumption that did truly annoy Crowley, for he was not an unsympathetic demon and he rather felt that far too much time had been spent throughout the ages treating such symptoms as demonic possession when it was in fact a humans mental health condition that was the true demon. Schizophrenia the most common culprit. A truly terrible disease, that could tear a mind and body apart far more efficiently than a demon ever could. Perhaps if humans had spent half as much time helping one another as they did with persecuting each another, they might very well have created the metaphorical 'Cure-all' pill and spared their entire race a great deal of grief.

The third stage, and the only one which held even a grain of truth, was _Possession_ itself. For all the 'evidence' that might suggest otherwise, Crowley and any one of his much begrudged 'brethren' need only put about as much effort into possessing a human, as was required to place a spoonful of sugar into a cup of coffee. They could dissolve between the individual chromosomes, pair to them, encompass them and instil themselves as readily and as completely as sugar becomes one with the water and the coffee beans.

There was no great art to human possession. But to possess an angel... _ah_. There was a challenge in and of itself. One he had yet to see bear fruit (most ironically) in over six thousand years.

He had known in the garden that this angel was different. He was far more stupid, for one. (_Gave away a flaming sword... honestly..._) But stupid in that 'Constantly in need of affirmation, never asked questions, never challenged, got a bluebird shoved up an inopportune crevice' sort of way that was as much endearing to Crowley as he was certain the angels of Heaven found it to be positively infuriating.

Aziraphale was, by Crowley's somewhat biased estimations, to be quite the very best thing that had ever come out of the Celestial realm. As sweet as he himself was sour but every bit as clever, with a sharp wit that often times stole out ahead of his inherit predilection of bandying good cheer at every turn. In the days of the Garden he had been of a rather slender frame, though this had quickly changed as Earth had taken to producing more and more delectable food stuffs and Aziraphale had, without much prompting mind, surrendered to the temptation of the plate and started determinedly filling out.

Crowley thought his softness rather pleasant. It paired well to his personality and served as an appropriate foil to Crowley's own body; tall, lean and with a lanky propensity that invariably brought to mind a spider that had been dropped onto a hotplate. (_This had been quite literally tested in the forties, when he had minced his way into a Church, feet just about set to fire from the consecrated ground, just so as to rescue Aziraphale from yet another stupid situation that the well meaning idiot had landed himself in_).

They had a lovely rapport from the beginning. Quite natural, if he were to be honest. He supposed this was, in part, because he was not particularly that good of a demon. (Or that... _bad_ of a demon, rather). And Aziraphale was, most certainly, not the most exceptional of a principality. They both loved earth a little too much and quite definitely liked each other far more than what was considered proper for an Angel and a Demon. (_Though they much rather preferred to hide it where possible_.)

They had been friends now for over six thousand years. Field agents of their respective domains; charged with the eternal task of sowing peace and dissent on earth. (And trading up wherever possible, as per the 'Arrangement'.) The dynamic worked ever so fluently because when a pair such as they were to meet smack in the middle, they created something of an unintended (and then rather _intended)_ balance. A balance that was quite readily achieved because neither had to regress terribly far before they drew even. Need I remind you; that this was not a pair of especially _competent_ Angels and Demons. Just two who really rather wanted to simply crack on with the cracking on, have a glass of wine and leave the intrinsics of politics to other far more qualified preternatural beings. What interest was it of theirs when there was a particularly lovely _Cheval Blanc_ that required imbibing? They could handle that. Everyone else could handle... the everything else.

And now, following a rather ham-handed and rather 'unlovely' Armageddon (_or Armage-Don't-even-bother, as Crowley had taken to calling it_) the pair had effectively severed their bonds with their affiliated agencies and were now subsequently left to their own devices.

It had given Anthony J. Crowley (_What _does_ the J stand for?_) plenty of time to indulge in an activity that he was most definitely certain he could have used much less of in his retirement. _Thinking_. A dangerous pastime and one which, for all his efforts, he couldn't seem to curb, no matter how obstinate and dualistically creative his imagination. He spent an inordinate amount of time those first few weeks following the Armage-Don't-even-bother, watching Aziraphale congenially masticate whatever reportedly 'scrumptious' morsel had been served him, wiping crumbs and cream alike from his cherubic little face and penned to his internal memoir that This Was_ It_. 'This' was to be his eternity, going at a slow saunter about the globe and likely visiting every known restaurant on the face of the earth with a positive enough review on Yelp and waiting an hour and a half for Aziraphale to finish eating his entrée just so as they could transgress onto the next course.

Did such a prospect aggrieve him though? _Hardly_. He enjoyed the world. And he enjoyed his dear friend far more than the world itself and would have sat and watched him eat cake on any desolate wind scorched little moon off in the farthest reaches of the farthest nebula. (_Well, it would probably have been moon rocks but the sentiment would have still been the same_).

He was content. And yet... the demon could not quite shake the feeling that... something was decidedly... off _balance._

It all started to make a little more sense one temperate enough Wednesday afternoon, when Crowley and Aziraphale were idling (or rather selectively sauntering and tottering along) down to sample the delights of a wine bar they had grown particularly fond of, when a gathering of humans donned in threateningly coloured tie-dye t-shirts caught their attention.

One of their gathering, a young woman, gestured for them to approach, her smile as white and as warm and as congenial as any one of those strange people that might come into the workplace and announce their presence with a bubbly '_Boy, I do love cycling to work_!' as frost condensates and drips from their helmet.

"Sir, we're giving out free hugs as part of our Mental Health Awareness week! Would you like a hug?" She asked, her arms extended towards Aziraphale but her eyes glancing surreptitiously towards a 'Could-hardly-care-less' Crowley. Aziraphale, naturally, looked all too delighted to participate in anything that promoted the rotting of several otherwise perfectly functional back molars.

"Oh, well. A free hug sounds quite marvellous, my dear!" Aziraphale enthused, with a smile so dazzling that Crowley was surprised most people didn't instinctually shield their eyes whilst caught in the grip of it. He held out his arms and the young lady stepped into his embrace. Aziraphale was one of the few... beings Crowley knew, who could have such an interaction with a young woman and leave nothing in the least to be inferred from it. He had all the jolly verve, appropriate aplomb and, for lack of a better term, sexless charm of a bleach blonde Santa Claus.

She was well having a lend of herself however, if she thought Crowley would be in any way receptive to the offer. When the young lady extended her arms to him and asked '_And what about you?_', it took every ounce of the demon's self-control not to hiss at her.

"I'm all good for hugs. _Thanks_." He managed instead, giving her a toothy smile that was likely quite as dark as Aziraphale's had been warm. It was the sort of smile a person might remark had '_not quite reached the person's eyes_' but there really wasn't any means of accurately determining this, as Crowley was wearing, as he always did, his dark, uniquely stylized sunglasses.

If the young lady were to get a proper glimpse of his actual eyes; large, tropical frog yellow and splintered by a thick black vertical gash, she might not have been so eager as to be on the receiving end of a hug from him after all.

"I think you rather disappointed that young lady today." Aziraphale was heard to be remarking later, passing over a snifter of brandy into Crowley's waiting hand. The demon sniffed the meagre offering, wrinkled his nose at its modest volume and immediately looked about for the bottle so as to correct the oversight.

They had returned to Aziraphale's book shop following dinner. A book shop that served, more accurately, as a place in which Aziraphale stored his millennia old's collection of rare books. Books of which he had no intention of ever relenting into the custody of anyone else.

A bookshop was as good a front as any, but the constant risk of customers coming in and actually _attempting_ to purchase any of the tomes from his collection was ever so wearing and Aziraphale enforced any number of preternatural deterrence's as a means of preventing it.

From convoluted and near indecipherable opening times to foul odours which seemed to emanate from nowhere, an inability to find from amongst the mess the exact book that you wanted and a much practiced but hardly perfected patented glare (which Crowley had invested the better half of a century attempting to teach him) were just some of the methods Aziraphale had in his celestial arsenal to keep would be customers at bay. It was not always effective, as there were the select few in human society that were either uncaring, inhibitive when so far as the five senses were concerned, inexorably patient and then there were those masochistic types who seemed to revel in diving in and out of uncategorized books such as a dolphin rides the rip tow of a ship that might at any second attempt to harpoon it.

"What young lady?" Crowley remarked, which was quite what Aziraphale expected, given how dottery the demon appeared to be getting as of late. He found himself, more often than not, having to repeat things the once or twice before they seemed to sink in. If they ever saw fit to sink in at all. Perhaps he was falling victim to some manner of demonic dementia?

"You know who. The peppy one at that awareness gathering, or whatever you might call it. Bad t-shirt." Aziraphale settled into his study chair, chancing Crowley with an affectionate glance before drawing in on the fumes from his drink. He sighed with a connoisseur's appreciation. "I think she was rather keen to have a hug with you."

This was quite lost on Crowley, who, having now rectified the well rather wanting state of his drink, lowered the tides once more by taking a sip of it and dropped onto the lounge settee with about as much grace as espoused by a mortally wounded walrus.

"Why?" He asked, more for the sake of continuing the conversation than for actual want of an answer. Quite honestly, for all his griping, he could have sat and debated with Aziraphale about the definition of every word in the dictionary and still call it a productive evening.

"Well, I should think it quite obvious. You are a rather handsome chap." Aziraphale said smilingly and to which he received an unconcerned '_Pfft'_ in return. Crowley really had little to no concern as to how his earthly body was received. He kept with the times, so as to blend in and found some enjoyment in putting his best metaphorical foot forward but he certainly didn't sit around wringing his hands over it. The body served its purpose and far better than most of those of his Hell based kin, _that_ was for sure. A set of yellow eyes was far easier to conceal than a symbiotic _toad_. As for 'handsome'... eh, how was he to know? Human interpretations of attractiveness were constantly in flux. They were a fickle species, which never seemed satisfied with what it had.

"I seem to recall a particular era in Rome when a certain white-haired Angel was all the rage..." Crowley drawled, taking off his glasses and rubbing his thumbs into the corners of his eyes. He'd grown accustomed to wearing them throughout the millennia he'd spent on Earth but it still didn't make his eyes feel any less tired in the evening. Aziraphale actually blushed at this one.

"Oh, that _was_ a dreadfully awkward time. People always fluttering about, asking questions."

"Upskirting you."

"I was ever so grateful for the invention of pantaloons." Aziraphale took a sip from his drink, his eyes just about sparkling with their amusement. Crowley watched, quite aware, as he always was, that his own eyes would never again possess such virtuous warmth. Once he might have felt resentful for it. Now, well... now he simply liked to admire them. He supposed really that no one's eyes could quite compare to the natural kindness of Aziraphale's; an angel with a disposition so sweet that it made others of his ilk looking positively lemony by comparison.

"The look on your face..." Aziraphale was saying, leaning back in his chair and resting his drink on the rise of his round stomach. Crowley gave himself a mental shake, bringing his attention staunchly back to reality. "Why, you looked as though the girl was about to go and splash Holy Water in your eyes!"

"Well I didn't _want_ to hug her." Crowley flatly stated, giving that tell-tale hike of his nostrils which said that he found something distasteful. "If I wanted something overly saccharine and pip-pip when life gives you lemons make lemonade little do-gooder pressing themselves up on me, I'd rather make do with you. Least I know where you've been."

Aziraphale didn't quite seem to know what to make of this. "Well, if you ask me, it just seems to be something of a wasted opportunity. I can't imagine you have had the chance for many hugs since the Fall."

Crowley could scarcely bring himself to even pretend to care about this one. "No. Not really. My lot aren't exactly known for their warm and fuzzy disposition. And there haven't been any humans I've liked enough to curl up with." He stared with mounting suspicion at his old friend, feeling each muscle in his body coil reflexively in preparation for... What, he wasn't quite sure. It was as though he were gearing up for an attack, but there was never a need to be on point when it came to Aziraphale. Not... _physically_ anyway. He was about as threatening as a bowl of whipped potatoes. Minus the bowl. "Why are you acting like this is such a big deal, angel? I'm sure the girl enjoyed hugging you much more than she would have enjoyed hugging me. You're all round and podgy. You've got those..." He jiggled his glass free hand at his side. "-love handle things for extra cushioning. And here's me with bones sticking out every which way. All elbows and knees and double joints, me."

Aziraphale allowed this backhanded near compliment to sail on by without affixing itself to his self-esteem. Something of which only an angel was capable, truly. "It just... well, let's just say that it explains so much."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"You've clearly been deprived of touch, my dear!" Aziraphale exclaimed, rising from his seat and setting down his near depleted glass with a burst of energy most would consider highly offensive for that time of the evening. "And touch is an integral and vital component of the corporeal experience. It assists the brain in releasing dopamine; the chemical responsible for improving mood and-" He ceased in his lecture, taking Crowley's indefinitely grumpy façade as proof enough. "- well, I should think it quite plain that your dopamine levels have barely given a metaphorical twitch of their ears in some time."

Crowley, as a demon, seemed to have a built in combative gene that simply would not allow him to sit idly by without protesting whatever otherwise enforced statement might be levelled at him. Now, was no exception. "Oh, I see. So, when you were _up there_, flapping about in your Heavenly Mother of Pearl towers of eternal glory, all you angels were just...? What? Grabbing on like a bunch of winged barnacles and hugging the holy shit out of each other? You and Gabriel locked in a big old love knot, twirling around in the Celestial void, playing grab arse while _The Sound of Music_ soundtrack blasts in the background?"

Aziraphale glanced nervously about at this, as though the choirs of Heaven still remained privy to their conversations. Which would quite honestly be a glowing indictment as to just how collectively bored the angels of Heaven were, if these were the sorts of exchanges they thought worth listening in on. "I should hardly think so! Gabriel's not in the _least_ interested in the sharing of an embrace. He made that quite clear the last time that I tried."

"To what? Grab him on the arse?"

"To give him a _hug_, you idiot! I thought it might have been a nice team bonding exercise. But then he just called me stupid and took my cocoa away." Aziraphale twisted his lip ever so slightly. "_Cupid_ on the other hand, well! He was far to the left. A bit too eager, even for my tastes."

"I remember Cupid." Crowley mused, eyes cast aside so that he did not bear witness to the look of intense shock coupled with curiosity that stole place of purchase on Aziraphale's face. "He did like to hug. _Way_ too much. Tried more than hugging as well, more than one occasion."

"You remember Cupid?" Aziraphale said meaningfully. He looked to Crowley with a reverence that seemed to suggest that the demon's wings had sprung into being and turned back to majestic (and subsequently ungroomed) white. "Well... I remember Cupid from... way back. Different departments of course. He was ever so forthright with his affections." He looked spellbound a moment, lost in his feelings and contemplations. "You and I... we might very well have crossed paths... In the... the old days."

"Uh-huh." Crowley grunted, turning his lips back to perch upon the rim of his glass. All the better for Aziraphale to not witness the smirk that stole precedence over them. "Couple of times. You just don't remember."

"Oh no, come on! You can't do that!" Aziraphale all but erupted and it took every ounce of self control Crowley had to not burst out laughing. His irritation could be just as charming as his naivety. "When are you ever going to tell me who you were back when you were in Heaven?"

"It's not who I am _any more_, so what does it matter?" Crowley replied, which he felt was as fair a point as any. "The agreement stands. You figure it out on your own, you feel the need to know. I'm not spending any more of my time lamenting the past. Anything that drives us further into the future is all the better in my books." He held up a cautionary finger. "Not _actual_ books, mind you, angel. Don't read books. Get bored by books. Big, fat, bloody books... Full of big stupid, bloody words. Like _winebibber_. I mean, what pretentious little git came up with something like _winebibber_, ya reckon?"

"Well, that being said, I would like to relegate the postulations concerning _winebibber_ to whence we next meet and finalize first our earlier conversation, if you please. And I, in turn, am pleased to report that during my time on earth, I have been the recipient of any number of hugs from some of the more grateful humans I crossed paths with." Aziraphale proudly stated, flopping back down into his chair with slightly less decorum than he had previously demonstrated. He poured himself another brandy and might have offered more to Crowley if the latter had not already helped himself.

"Uh-huh." The demon responded, not caring. He was tired and ornery; none of which was out of the norm, simply that he had very little interest in the conversation it appeared Aziraphale was more the insistent on having. He was still too strung up over _winebibber_ and was raking through the collective nodes of his brain for a time in history when the word first might have raised its nascent little head. Got to have been a Shakespeare thing. He was just the sort of gnarly, pompous little knob to have come up with something like that...

"Look, you are just a little out of practice." The angel was suddenly back on his feet, glass left behind in his enthusiastic wake and he was moving a footstool across to the far side of the room. He returned and stood at an approximate swinging distance from the couch, smiling in a both encouraging (and slightly off-putting) manner, gesturing towards his chest with his hands. "Come, come."

Crowley, feeling cold steel make a home for itself in his belly, sat up on the couch and slinked apprehensively over its far arm and moved about half a rooms length away, his eyes darting towards all available exits. Unlike Aziraphale he kept a firm hold of his drink. Mainly, because it was a bloody good year but secondarily, because he felt as though he might have need of it.

"What are you doing? Why has the stool being moved out of kicking distance?"

"Because you need a hug." Aziraphale said, with such a cultish, Kumbaya, '_Please-buy-our-girl-guide cookies_' insistence to his tone that Crowley felt the overwhelming urge to disappear once more into his phone and save himself.

"I don't need a hug. Who said I needed a hug?"

"That sour 'I have been sucking on a lemon for the past six thousand years' expression that you've been wearing for the past... six thousand years, says so. Now come on, there's nothing to be afraid of." He fluttered his fingers at the plaintively frightened demon, grinning in a way he thought to be comforting, but from Crowley's alarmed perception, looked all too maniacal and slightly bloodthirsty. "It's nice. You'll enjoy it."

"Well, you do look soft." Crowley acquiesced, which was another near insult Aziraphale did his utmost to wear gracefully. "But, I uh... I don't..." The demon shook his head, fighting some internal battle with much the same external motions he might have made if a blowfly had taken up residence in his skull. "I don't really think we need to be ...hugging. I mean, what's in it for you?"

The inference that an Angel might have some degree of self-interest was plainly an offensive one so far as Aziraphale was concerned. "I've already told you, nothing! I just thought you might like one!"

Crowley, still untrusting, weighed up all the categorical gains and gain-nots of the situation and still couldn't seem to quite work out the maths. "I... I don't know..."

"Is it really going to kill you to give something new a try? We have all the time in the world, for... someone's sake." It was their go to now, since the shucking of their respective domains. It was hard to know who or 'what' to thank, if anything once you had lost faith in all known corners of the universe. "If we're going to keep from getting bored, we must do our best to experience new things."

Crowley felt a flush of pure pleasure at this, something that might only be achieved in knowing that he was about to catch his old friend out in a raging contradiction. If there were sweeter fruit than getting one up on the people you cared about, he had yet to try it. "Oh... really? Because I seem to recall _someone_ turning down that antique car show I wanted to go to because_ it wasn't a catered event_!" He snapped snakishly, pouting his lips then to form an expression which plainly read '_Try wriggling out of that one gracefully_'.

Aziraphale, however, was far more on point than Crowley was these days and had quite sufficient experience wriggling in any number of ways. "Shows how reliable _your_ memory is, for I did attend that insufferable little automobile show, thank you kindly! I packed a picnic and brought my own wine and a lovely duck parfait. You remember. We had scones."

All the blood drained from Crowley's face. Oh dear...whoever. They _did_ go to the car show. With a picnic hamper. Aziraphale had brought a red and white checked blanket and two matching cushions and those wine glasses you can push into the dirt. There had been quite a bit of laughter, most of which Crowley was sure only _he_ had been aware of and none of which the either of them had shared in.

"Oh, right. _Knew_ there was a reason I blocked that one out..."

"So, if you are to insist on us continuing to keep tabs, it would seem, dear fellow that it is_ your_ turn, to step outside of your comfort zone."

"Oh, believe me." Crowley said, staring humourlessly from beneath his brows as the memories of that particular outing continued to flood back with a cringe-ful vengeance. "That picnic at the car show was _very much_ out of my comfort zone."

Aziraphale gave him one of those looks; one that Crowley, well versed as he was in the art of manipulation, could rarely negotiate with any confidence. Which said a lot as to how effective it was. "Very well. I'm hardly going to force it on you." He smiled that ever so beautiful and ever so infuriating smile. "I understand that you're afraid."

"Oh, I'm not afraid. I'm also not stupid enough to fall for blatant reverse psychology, angel." Crowley took a haughty hit from his glass and crossed the room, carefully, mind you, to pour himself another round. Aziraphale, doing that ever so hateful all-knowing look which seemed a veritable staple of an angel's personality (or sometimes lack, thereof) placed his fingertips together to form a passive steeple shape. His eyes, framed with their soft, long lashes, veritably danced above it.

"Crowley, my dear, I am in no position to judge you."

"Hey, if you want a hug so bad, you could just ask." Crowley said, turning the injurious accusation back on its angelic instigator. "Instead of all this trying to convince me that I secretly want some sort of weird dopamine ejaculatory emission."

"I am not so proud as to object to sharing an embrace with my oldest and dearest friend." Was Aziraphale's smooth and somehow equally humbling response. It made Crowley feel, just as was surely intended, somehow ungracious and childish. As though he considered himself _too good_ to cuddle it up with his dear friend; which was entirely untrue. If there was one thing Crowley knew to be true it was that he was _never_ too good for _anything_.

"... fine, then." He relented, going to put his drink down and then thinking better of it. "One moment." He refilled the glass, downing the contents in one motion so fluid that Aziraphale did not even see his Adams apple flex as the alcohol sailed past it. There was a tiny amount remaining in the base and Crowley might very well have left it there, if not for having noticed it last minute and slogging back the lingering drop with a somehow indecent swish of his tongue. Only now did he place the empty glass down, wipe his mouth on his sleeve and take a deep breath in through his nose. As though he were a boxer preparing himself for the ring. "Okay. So... How do we do this?" He sniffed.

"Oh, well. It's quite simple really." Aziraphale said, smiling supportively as he extended his arms out to either side of his round body. "You just... you open your arms and then you-you move close to the other person and then you... wrap your arms around them and you squeeze."

"How hard do you squeeze?"

"Ah. Sufficiently hard."

"Sufficiently hard enough to shift their internal organs?"

Aziraphale frowned at this one. "Um... no. I should think that would be just a _trifle_ too hard."

"Hard enough to make them bleed from the eyes?" Crowley sounded almost hopeful. As though there would be something tangible in this for him after all. "Cause an internal brain haemorrhage?"

"None of the above, you idiot!" Aziraphale snapped, losing his patience at last. It didn't happen often, but then he hadn't had quite as much to drink on this occasion as Crowley had. Which was enough to rival that of a solider who was just about to have his lower leg amputated in the middle of an active war zone with a dull pencil. "Just hard enough to express your affection but not so soft so as to not gain anything from it."

"No one said anything about expressing affection." Crowley felt momentarily panicked by the notion but Aziraphale was quite shot of his balking by that point and started approaching with the determination of a horror movie zombie intent on the brains of their bleach-blonde, likely already brainless, co-star.

"Come on, now."

Crowley, shoulders hiked up so far that his head had almost disappeared into his chest, slowly approached the angel with all the nervous energy of an animal about to take food from a humans fingers. Aziraphale moved in much the same slow, languid manner, clearly trying not to spook an obviously high-strung demon who was likely to shoot through the wall at the first sudden movement.

"There you are. You're doing _very_ well." He said encouragingly. Crowley puffed air up into the combed back coif of his hair, wrinkling his upper lip unappreciatively.

"Don't patronize me, angel." He was now within docking distance and he took a moment to work out the kinks in his neck, give his arms a stretch to make sure they weren't going to be inhibited in any way by the sleeves. He took a deep breath in through his nose, staggered its release. "All right. Here we go."

"I believe in you." Aziraphale said lovingly and with a smile so warm it sent something to squirming in Crowley's belly. Which naturally just pissed him off all the more.

"Oh, shut up." He said, quite as affectionately and then, with ever so tender care, slid his arms in underneath Aziraphale's; flinching at one moment as though expecting the angel to bite him. Aziraphale waited patiently for Crowley to make himself as comfortable as he required, slowly then wrapping his own arms around the demon's upper back and mid section. Their chests came together. Aziraphale gave Crowley a good squeeze. Crowley squeezed back, almost causing the top of Aziraphale's head to erupt.

"I _told _you; not so hard!" He snapped, slapping his palm to the demon's hunched upper back.

"Sorry, I _am_ new to this!" He said in way of defence. He eased up on the pressure in his arms, tried to force himself to relax a little. He rested his head on Aziraphale's shoulder (_which was awkward as he was taller_) and sniffed as the tang of the angels' cologne invaded his nostrils. He'd forgotten to miracle any on himself. He probably smelled _bad_. Aziraphale could probably _smell_ him _smelling bad_.

"See now. Isn't this nice?" Aziraphale said, eyes closed, entirely invested in the moment as he rubbed his hands over Crowley's stiff, unappreciative back.

"... Not really." Crowley muttered, which was a response he couldn't help but make (_being himself_) but finding that he was actually rather starting to warm to it. Aziraphale was quite as soft and podgy as he remembered from his brief time spent in his body, but it was another matter to be pressed up against it rather than inhabiting it. It was the warmth and the hands on his back which felt good as they made their congenial rotations.

Crowley closed his eyes a moment, giving himself over to the feelings of peace and safety that were currently flowing through him. It felt all too much as though something inside of him had been starving for this and was now sucking in as much as it possibly could. He felt a little smile form on his face, one he would have been mortified to have anyone actually witness for it looked really rather goofy and might very well have been used to deride him on social media. If Crowley had been a teenage girl with horrible classmates and not a hug deprived demon currently hanging off of a jolly blonde angel like so much wet washing.

The angel who, seeming to have had his fill, bestowed upon the demon now a parting pet to the back and started to draw himself out of the embrace. Crowley felt panic burst through him, his eyes slamming open and he reflexively clasped his left hand about his right wrist, keeping his arms all but locked around Aziraphale's plump body.

"Not yet." He said, eyes darting about fearfully, burying his face in the angel's hair and clinging to him as obstinately as a child to the leg of a mother who is anxiously trying to extract herself from the day-care centre. Aziraphale's own eyes awned in their sockets as he permitted himself a moment in which to be entirely and unashamedly flummoxed by what was going on.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N:** And so the question begs; Have you hugged your demon today? ;)

If you enjoyed, please feel free to review, follow or even offer concrit if you deem it appropriate :) Also, make certain to give that special demon in your life a great, big, snuggle-bug of a cuddle. You know that they need it!

With all of my infernal love;

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Good Omens and all its motley assortment of characters do not belong to me. I swear to God I'm about the only person who does this stupid disclaimer thing, but you WATCH. The second I DON'T do it, I'll somehow end up getting sued. It could only happen to me.

A/N: Hey everyone :) Here is the continuation from Chapter one. All this subdividing is going to result in this story being over 53 chapters by the time I'm done. Daaaaang. Which means a lot of new author notes to start with.

I feel like I should use all these new Author Notes to chuck in a random Good Omens fact or observation or something. Liven it up.

So, Good Omens Factoid No 1: Did anyone else notice that the other angels of Heaven also wore gold rings on their fingers? I don't think that all of them did, but I definitely noticed that SOME of them did. Interesting, yeah?

Okay, feel as free to have a read, my dears and I shall see you on the flip side!

* * *

**Chapter One - Part 2**

**~X~**

In the following weeks, it became swiftly and unequivocally apparent to the angel, that he had created a monster.

Deprive a man of food for so long, and he will devour a live cow if it were to cross in front of him. Drop him in the desert beneath the boiling sun and he will drain the nearest watering hole in under five minutes and with nothing but a straw as some sort of water transferring receptacle.

And so, deprive a demon of touch for over six thousand years it seems, and they will solder themselves to the nearest available warm body with the persistence of and as invariably unwelcomed as a paralysis tic.

Such that it was that near every interaction Crowley established with Aziraphale was punctuated throughout with some manner of a hug. From full body python like embrace, (with the inclusion once of a leg hooked unnecessarily about the angels' ankle) to a casual, yet somehow always intrinsically desperate arm about the shoulders.

He had a hug stored up for just about everything, it seemed. Good weather called for a hug. Gloomy weather called for an even firmer hug. Getting out of the car called for a celebratory hug that they had arrived safely at their destination. Another hug to celebrate walking through the door of said establishment and taking off their coats. The _After Dinner Mint hug_ was especially memorable, even whence compared to the _You Almost Stepped in Dog Shit but Avoided it at the very Last Moment, hug_.

And it was not just Aziraphale to whom these interactions were limited. He was the principle point of reference of course, by virtue of the fact that he was the one with whom Crowley spent the most time but much as a glass will overflow if you continue to carelessly pour water into it, so too did Crowley's sudden appreciation for hugging leak out onto anyone whom came anywhere close to his gravitational field. Aziraphale was not often prone to fits of embarrassment concerning the general human public, but he did in fact feel just the slightest bit self-conscious when Crowley wrapped a much bemused trainee barrister up in his arms and all but expunged her eyes from their sockets, simply because she had paused to wipe an errant crumb from their table.

As such things are typically want to do, the tipping point was ever so graciously meandering closer. It might not have taken so long to instigate the tilt, if not for the fact that Aziraphale, by nature of what he was, possessed incomparable patience. And, if he was to be honest, half suspected that Crowley might have been, as the demon might say, '_taking the piss_' just so as to teach his friend a lesson for having coaxed him into something he had plainly been uncomfortable with.

By a humans estimation, keeping a joke running for so long might seem unreasonable, but a matter of weeks was merely a bat of the eye for a pair of occult beings (_ethereal_) who had been around since before the time of Methuselah. It would hardly have surprised Aziraphale in the least if Crowley was simply putting just that little extra effort into trying to antagonize him. After all, they had technically been out of work some time now. Such little amusements were how Crowley was known to pass the time.

But the tipping point did eventually arrive, in the form of one Anthony J. Crowley (_more the surprising that in his boredom Crowley hadn't invested some time in ascribing an affiliated name to the J_) swanning into Aziraphale's book shop one evening with a box DVD set in one hand and a blanket in the other. Aziraphale had the misfortune of being in the company of an unwanted customer at that time (let's be honest, all customers were unwanted so far as he was concerned) and took a pause long enough from passively glowering from behind a tower of books, stacked as though to represent a metaphorical and heavy handed reference to a staircase leading upwards, to stare at the approaching demon.

"Hey Aziraphale. Thought we could stay in tonight. Binge watch some Golden Girls." Crowley said, as way of announcing himself. He followed this up, as Aziraphale had come to expect, with a hug that encircled his ribcage like a 16th century corset. (_Something he had regrettable experience with following a certain job needing to be conducted for a reason that at the time must have seemed important but in hindsight now seemed ridiculous and of little value other than granting him a perspective into what it was like to wear a corset_).

"Hello Crowley. Lovely to see you." Aziraphale said, trying and failing not to stare at the soft, plainly recently purchased blanket Crowley had tucked beneath his arm. It was of that fluffy, green material and colour must usually ascribed to baby's belongings and festooned with small stitched on cartoon elephants, giraffes and various other anthropomorphized African animals. "I, um..." He blinked, allowing his natural effervescent smile to pin itself back to his face and sent very specific instructions to his brain to avoid speculating further on the blanket. "I thought we had made plans to go to dinner tonight?"

Aziraphale fancied he saw the slightest flicker pass behind Crowley's glasses; a sure fire sign that his own brain was swiftly stringing together something that might, in some Universe or another, make a lick of sense. "Yeah, well... _would_ have been a laugh but then the temperature dropped and I thought... well, no point really going out in weather like this."

Aziraphale glanced through the store front window, witnessing a pair of sparrows flitting past, their wings cutting brief shadows through the warm ray of sunlight piercing the glass. People passed by contentedly on the street; lovers holding hands, children riding their bikes. One was even heard to vocally and enthusiastically proclaim, "_I've never known for us to have such a warm and balmy day this early in the Spring!_" It seemed a strange thing for a child to say, but there you go.

Crowley's luminescent eyes didn't so much as shift behind his glasses. He kept them firmly focused on Aziraphale, as though to look away might break whatever influence he incorrectly assumed he might have held over the Angel. Aziraphale thought it prudent however, to raise another quite obvious point that would interfere with whatever strange plans Crowley had in store for their evening.

"Ah, well. Not that staying indoors doesn't sound a _jolly good idea._ But..." He paused, glancing over towards his lone customer, who had progressed to the rather distressing secondary phase of actually flicking through one of the books. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Aziraphale's neck and he sequestered some of his concentration into worsening the pungent odour lingering in the shop before continuing. "But if you do recall, my dear, I am not in possession of a television. Let alone one that is capable of playing your _GDV_ devices."

"It's _DVD,_ angel. And that's not a problem." Crowley said, sauntering on past Aziraphale into his study and dropping the blanket and box set onto the couch before then leaning his elbow on the corner of the big screen television which had at some point materialized in the room. "I brought my own." And off of Aziraphale's wide eyed look of disbelief, added: "Well, not like it was doing much at my place. Think of it as an early birthday present."

"I don't _have_ a birthday!" Aziraphale rather well spluttered, a crease forming between his contrarily dark brows. "When did you even find time to set this up? I've been here all morning, I would have noticed you jostling about back there."

"You'd be surprised at what you _don't_ notice, angel." Crowley remarked with a meaningful smile, twitching his nose in that rabbit like manner he had learned from mimicking Aziraphale. He fairly much twirled on his cuban heels, plucking up the DVD from the couch. "I'm just gonna go ahead and set this up. What do ya think about ordering in, getting someone to bring the food to the shop?"

"Well... it all sounds lovely." Aziraphale said, for his appraisals were nearly always of a complimentary standard, in spite of what he was actually feeling. If he were to be honest with himself (_may he be forgiven_) he was actually rather disappointed. He had been looking forward to going out that evening. A new Sushi train had opened in town and he thought it would be rather splendid fun to treat Crowley to the novel experience of conveyer belt food. He suspected that the demon had ulterior motives and, once the benighted customer had summarily fled the shop and its ever increasingly more malodorous odour, he was unsurprised to be proven right.

Following Aziraphale placing a rather extensive order through to _Amrutha Lounge_ and pouring them each a glass of wine, they settled onto the couch to watch Golden Girls; sharing a box of popcorn Crowley had at some point miracled out of some poor movie goers hands somewhere. It didn't take long before Crowley had wrapped himself in the blanket (though it was hardly cold) and subsequently aligned the right hand side of his body with the left of Aziraphale's. He leant into him, eschewing subtlety entirely by picking up the angels' arm and pulling it about his shoulders. Aziraphale continued to smile, as he always did, but felt ever the slightest quiver form in the bow of his lips which might, in any human person, have translated into something vocal and uncouth. To miss out on attending an exciting new restaurant in favour of perching on the couch, eating food out of paper containers and pretending to not so well watch a show Aziraphale was quite convinced Crowley had already seen over a dozen times already? He really was on the cusp of becoming _quite_ cross!

Crowley didn't even seem particularly interested in watching the show. Having taken off his glasses, he stared unblinkingly (as always) in the direction of the television screen, a small, somewhat self satisfied little smirk adorning the lower part of his face like low hanging Christmas ornament you can't help but dislike for whatever the reason. He had his arm wrapped firm about Aziraphale's paunchy midsection, in such a way he ought not have naturally achieved. Aziraphale suspected he might have preternaturally extended the length of his arm just so as to have it reach all the way around, which seemed a really rather pointless waste of his demonic abilities.

He felt rather the more relieved than he ought to have done when the food arrived. He was still forced to extract himself out of Crowley's grasp; a grasp he attributed to being much like that of a creeper vine which had transgressed the borders of its own pot and gone mooching about in the adjacent plants branches. All hands were on deck when it came to eating their 'TV dinners' but Crowley still found a way to keep himself tucked in to Aziraphale's side throughout the modest meal. More than once Aziraphale found his eye on the receiving end of a spiky poke from one of Crowley's prouder chunks of hair. He fought back the tears that might otherwise have erupted; fearing that it might have been cause enough to elicit another series of consolatory hugs.

When paper boxes had been scraped clean and appropriately deposited into the belly of the bin, they returned with barely fostered interest to the goings on of 'Golden Girls'. Aziraphale might have had the patience of a Saint, but he was finding himself getting ever more bored by the moment. He would have very much liked to have read a book or something, but it would have been impossible to even retrieve one, given Crowley's once more vice like grip about him. What was worse, Aziraphale realized, was that Crowley had brought all seven seasons of the Golden Girls and he had mentioned 'binging' on them. He tried not to outwardly sigh and reminded himself to be a decent chap about it all. One of the wine bottles was still within easy reach. Tucked in between Crowley's inner bicep and his cheek. Another glass or so should take the edge off.

**~X~**

At 10:45pm, Aziraphale was finding that there wasn't wine enough in the _world_ to effectively numb this progressively ridiculous situation. Crowley, no longer concerned with masquerading pretences, had dropped off to a drunken slumber a good fifteen minutes ago, leaving Aziraphale metaphorically stranded. He was unable to reach the remote, due to the angry vice like grip of the demon about his midsection and was out of wine, which was making the entire situation far the less tolerable. He could feel sobriety slowly creeping up on him, making him all the more horrifyingly lucid and aware of his predicament. If he had not been quite so intoxicated to begin with, he might have realized that he could simply miracle the television off but it took another good twenty minutes of sitting there in limbo before the thought formulated within his mind and he snapped the power to the television off with a clarity so sharp you could just about smell the barely veiled vehemence crackling in the air.

Demons and Angels did not require sleep in the same manner that human beings did. Certainly they got tired, but not at the same rate. They could go much longer without experiencing the negative effects of sleep deprivation. That being said, Aziraphale and Crowley had long ago resigned themselves to following a fairly standardized Earth Sleep Routine, in keeping with appearances and... well, because sleep was nice and a perfectly lovely way to relax. Crowley especially seemed to thrive on it and would squeeze in a nap just about wherever possible. On whatever flat enough of a surface was available.

Aziraphale rather felt that he would like to go to bed at that point and had little in the way of guilt concerning it, given what he had been made to endure for most of the evening.

"All right, dear. Time to wake up." He said, kindly as ever and gave Crowley's shoulder a shake that was not quite so gentile as his tone had been. Crowley, mouth agape, snoring from the core of his being as though fighting some manner of ill tempered battle with his unconscious state, snorted himself back into being and glanced bleary eyed about the room, smacking his lips distractedly.

"I been asleep long?" He asked, voice slurred both from said sleep and from the alcohol still dormant in his system. Neither of them had actively sought to sober up on this occasion; being that they had only gotten through the three bottles between them but Aziraphale fancied that Crowley would likely be feeling it in the morning all the same.

"About an hour or so. Never the mind." Aziraphale smiled beatifically, reaching down and unwinding Crowley's arm from about him, registering a small grunt of protest from the demon as he did. He gave him a conciliatory pet on the arm before climbing to his feet, feeling pins and needles immediately flush through the backs of his thighs and buttocks. "You'd best be along. It's getting very late and you'll be needing your sleep."

"What time is it?" Crowley asked, which in itself was very telling to Aziraphale. Crowley had never particularly cared at what hour he came and went. It wasn't as though he were vulnerable to any of the unsavoury goings on that the dead of the night was so often host to. And in spite of his earlier testament to the change in the weather, he didn't seem to feel the cold and had no observable concerns swanning about in clothing that might very well have seen a human of equivalent shape and size hunkered in around themselves in a frostbitten ball.

"Ah, well it is about..." Aziraphale glanced at the clock on the wall, wringing his fingers together in that way he knew was indicative of his increasing anxiety and still had no ability to curtail. "11:15pm."

Crowley grunted sleepily, sinking down further into his baby blanket and all but interring his body into the threads of the couch. "Still early... _ish_." He blinked up at Aziraphale. "What were you planning on doing now?"

Aziraphale thought this a rather silly question, given how well the pair knew one another. What did Crowley _suppose_ he was about to do at this hour of the night? Host a Mexican themed jamboree?

"I was planning on getting into bed. Reading a book." He twirled a finger semi-mockingly in the air. "Perhaps take in some of that delightful _sleep _thing. Ta-ra."

Crowley gave another grunt, not quite so sleepy as the first. "Uh... yeah all right. Mind if I stay until I sober up a bit?"

Smiling came naturally to Aziraphale, so he was quite surprised to find he needed to put quite a bit more of an effort into maintaining one. It was not as though he wasn't fond of Crowley; he did in fact love him dearly and felt for him a strange sort of responsibility that a human person might feel towards a not particularly bright Labrador. He was simply rather perturbed about this sudden predilection Crowley had developed towards physical contact. It well rather bordered on becoming unhealthy and creating a dependency of which, supportive though Aziraphale considered himself to be, did not wish to be complicit in sustaining.

Because of course, there was no need for Crowley to have to wait to sober up. He could simply have used his abilities to expunge the alcohol from his system and return it to the wine bottle from whence it came. It was a poor excuse and rather the transparent one at that, given how clever the demon most usually was.

And it wasn't that Aziraphale was unkind. Or unsympathetic. Far from it. It was simply that... the _closeness_ was difficult. Crowley expressing affection in such an unapologetic manner was difficult. It battered at the flimsy walls Aziraphale had constructed about his own feelings.

It weakened him, to feel Crowley in his arms, the press of his body, the warmth of his breath. He had quietly pondered what such a thing would feel like for thousands of years now. To actually be _physically_ close to Crowley. Now he knew. And he enjoyed it just that little too much.

That frightened him. It was, after all, an enormous hurdle they'd traversed, simply in establishing that physical contact. Could it be that in crossing that boundary, they left themselves at the mercy of whatever other doors it might potentially open?

They were severed from Heaven and Hell now, after all. Crowley might very well believe that with their being 'let go' from their selective offices, they were now free to be... well, _closer_ than they had ever been. Aziraphale was quite certain that Crowley possessed feelings for him that were not so disparate from his own. He was simply... unable to fathom what form their relationship might take, if not the very same as the one they had now. He had never been in a position to allow himself to think on such things. And he wasn't quite sure if and when he would ever be.

Still, he was hardly about to kick his friend of six thousand years out onto the street, all for risk of being... well, _at risk_ and graciously permitted him to rest up on the couch. Aziraphale consequently took himself to the adjacent room, in which his single bed was tidily awaiting him (why Crowley insisted on that four poster behemoth he had somehow squeezed into his apartment, he did not know) and dressed in his striped pyjamas, carefully hanging what clothing required hanging and folding whatever items required folding and transferring whatever required washing into the wash basket. (_Yes, he was fussy, but that was how one kept such meticulous order of their lives and garments over the passing of the centuries_).

He brushed and flossed his teeth and applied cream to his hands; for his palms and fingers oftentimes became dry from their constant contact with the pages of his books. He might too made himself a cocoa, as was tradition, but he feared that passing back through the sitting area might bring him into hugging distance of Crowley. And goodness knows where that might end up, given that he was still obstinately holding on to all the alcohol he'd drunk.

Aziraphale wondered if there might very well have been method in the madness. Was Crowley trying to _keep_ himself numb? A little disinhibited? It certainly wouldn't do for him to go wandering back out there and give him an opportunity to use that Dutch courage to act out whatever he may or may not have been planning.

Fortunately for Aziraphale, he was no longer affiliated with Heaven and as such, no one was actively monitoring him for the amount of 'frivolous miracles' he was executing. And so he went ahead and summoned a mug of delicious chocolate and marshmallow crowned cocoa onto his bedside table. He set himself up in bed, covers tucked neatly over the lower half of his body and pillows supporting his lower back and shoulders. He slid on his reading glasses, took from the bedside table the book that he was in the midst of reading, sipped from his cocoa and opened the pages to where he had last left off.

It was then that Crowley slunk into the bedroom and was received in much the same manner of a silent fart that no one wished to lay claim to.

"You know, it's um... it's cold out there... and boring... so..." His big yellow eyes glanced about the room, in a way Aziraphale found bizarrely self-conscious. "Mind if I just... hang out in here with you?"

Aziraphale had fairly much strained his eyes in an effort to keep them from rolling back in their sockets when the door had creaked open. He dug deep, way down deep into the so far almost entirely scraped free resevoir of his patience and mustered from the depths some scrap of resilience he wasn't at all sure he had.

"Not at all." He said, gesturing to one of the two comfortable armchairs he had set into the corners of the room. Both of which were plump, plush and entirely suited to hosting an otherwise needing body. "Please, have a seat wherever you like."

It was a poor choice of words, Aziraphale realized and one that Crowley naturally interpreted to suit his own needs. "Thanks." He had grunted, keeping his blanket clutched about his body like a medieval cape as he bypassed the chairs without even a perfunctory glance and settled expectantly onto the bed alongside Aziraphale. Being a King Single and barely suited for one 'man like body' let alone two, this quickly became an arrangement Aziraphale grew uncomfortable with. He was accustomed to sleeping alone, as he was quite certain Crowley was and even if he did possess some desire to share a bed, he would prefer it to have more stretching out room than this.

"Cozy?" He asked, wondering if any of his true feelings were noticeable in his otherwise chipper tone. If Crowley picked up on anything, he didn't bother with attending to it on any deeper level and simply re-wound himself about Aziraphale with a determination most intestinal parasites might have considered invasive.

"Perfect. Cheers." He replied, not two seconds before he was away to snoring again. Aziraphale treated himself to a heartfelt sigh of discomfort before focusing as much of his attention as he could on his book. At the very least, he could still reach his cocoa, since Crowley hadn't insisted on having Aziraphale's arm about him whilst simultaneously interring himself six feet deep within his aura.

It was about 1:35pm (_and fifteen seconds, to be anally precise_) when Aziraphale transgressed to that ever just so space in which sleep was most readily attained. He drained the last of his cocoa, set his book aside and carefully placed his reading glasses atop them in preparation of his next session. He glanced down at the rusty red, contextually ruffled head of hair belonging to the benighted demon still insistent on sharing his bed, who was snoring up at him in what seemed to be a deliberately obnoxious rebuke.

"Well... I'm about ready to go to sleep." Aziraphale announced to no one in particular. Certainly not to Crowley, who, he imagined, would have ignored the inference even if he had been awake to hear it. "Time for you to make tracks, my dear. Home to your lovely apartment and your much, much, _much_ roomier bed."

He fluffed his fingertips over Crowley's arm and sides, resisting the ever rising urge to simply scruff his neck and hurl him off of the bed and right on out the window. When he proved resistant to this typically angelic 'ever so softly softly' approach, Aziraphale (with a not at all contained and hardly angelic 'huff') reached down and pinched the demon's cheek.

"Crowley!" He snapped, rounding off the pinch with a slight, yet sharply deposited slap to the rapidly reddening mark he had just made. Crowley jerked awake, with one of those full bodied spasms that always looks so startling and glared up at Aziraphale in his usual _'grumpy because I'm grumpy and extra grumpy because I'm tired and already hungover_' face of which Aziraphale was quite familiar with after six thousand years of seeing it.

"Ow! _What?!_" He hissed, reaching up and glancing the heel of his hand over his cheek. Aziraphale, no longer concerned with bandying politeness (_he was far too tired for bandying any sort of courtesy)_ flicked a finger towards the door.

"It is time for you to go. Go on now."

Crowley, with an expression of outraged offense, glanced to the clock above the doorway and gesticulated toward it with an urgency that suggested it was Aziraphale being unreasonable in this situation.

"But... but it's after _midnight_! What are you going to do? Just hurl me out onto the street and let me get robbed by a bunch of high schoolers on some sort of gang initiation bender?"

Aziraphale, currently in position of a right buttock which was severely cramped as a result of half of it being suspended off of the side of the mattress the last hour, was all but shot of patience. "You're hardly going to get robbed! You're a demon, with six thousand years of practice taking care of yourself in far more unsavoury parts of the world! I hardly think you likely to meet your end at the hands of whatever might be lurking the alleyways of night time Soho. And why should you be walking anyway? Your car is right outside the front door, just drive yourself home!"

"What's even the point of me going now? Can't you just let me sleep without being such a big nanna's blouse about it?" Crowley grumbled, already in the midst of preparing to sink his head back down into the mattress. Aziraphale, after enduring this overly tender and entirely un-character like behaviour for that past month and a bit, reached at long last the end of his ethereal tether.

"All right, that is _quite_ enough!" He said, flinging back the coverlet so that it buried Crowley beneath it momentarily and rose from the bed like a pyjama draped mummy from a cursed Egyptian tomb. He strode a good five feet away, well out of groping distance and placed his hands together to form that both inoffensive and equally serious gesture acquianted with 'a good talking to.' "... My dear, you have a problem."

"My problem is _you_ not letting me sleep. _Dear._" Crowley deferred, uncaring and for the most part unheeding. Aziraphale had expected this. People with addiction issues, he had learned from his collection of self-help books, took quite the modicum of convincing before they were ready to acknowledge that they were destroying themselves.

"No. Your problem is that you are obsessed with hugging. Look at yourself!" He gestured to Crowley, curled up on a maroon coverlet and ensconced, further still, in the grip of a blanket clearly purchased from the newborn's section. "You once possessed an air of... grace and sophistication." (_It was a stretch but rather the more convincing than saying he possessed the _delusion _of being graceful and sophisticated_). "Now all you think about is hugging. You go about your business, distracted. Wondering where your next hug might be coming from. Obsessing over it. Hugging at inappropriate times, with no thought as to who might be around you to witness it."

"I don't hug at inappropriate times." Crowley snorted, defensively.

"You hugged the waiter at the diner who brought you a moist toilette from the dispensary!"

He could see Crowley working some sort of logic around in his head to make this at all seem reasonable. "Well it was _very_ refreshing."

"You hugged him _before_ you had even opened it."

"I was _anticipating_ that it would be refreshing. And what, pray tell, angel, is your point with all of this?"

Aziraphale felt his eyes widen with just a hint of the exasperation that was blooming rapidly inside of him. "My point is is that it's not normal to go around hugging people because they have brought you a serviette! Or because they held a door open for you, or handed you a pamphlet advertising twenty-percent mark down prices on all electronics in store!"

"Those were _very _good deals..." Crowley remarked thoughtfully, chewing on the corner of his lip as though sincerely considering a future possibility of attending BrandMart and partaking of their low-quality technological produce. Aziraphale clapped his fingertips together a few times to elicit attention from an otherwise traditionally attention deficit demon.

"My dear fellow, you are _missing_ the point. I am concerned that your addiction is starting to take over your life. That you are using it as a placeholder for what is currently missing."

Crowley gave him a pointed, somewhat knowing look. "... This is because you missed out on going to the Sushi train tonight, isn't it?"

"Well, I was looking forward to it!" Aziraphale snapped, revealing the quite true and not at all noble seed from which his irritation had sprung. Crowley smirked a little, giving that familiar little sniff of which the angel thought ever so smug.

"Listen, you can save your breath, angel. Eh? I don't have a problem. It's just a... delightful quirk I've been indulging as a means to stave off boredom." He swung himself off of the bed, both long legs pinned together and striking through the air like a well sharpened sword. He glowered at Aziraphale, sanctioning the edges of the babies blanket across his chest much like a ladies travelling coat. "I can quit anytime I want. And quite frankly, I'm offended by the insinuation that I would develop any kind of dependency on _you._"

"Well, I am quite relieved to hear it. Steady as you go." Aziraphale shot back, passing his hand through the air in a definitive and unquestionable gesture to '_fuck off_'. Crowley, still wearing a broody expression that might very well have been fetching if not for the fact that he was simply too much of a dork to pull it off, made two long limbered, plainly exaggerated strides that brought him flush to the door. He got any more dramatic with his saunter and he would be lucky to keep an even inch between his groin and the floor, Aziraphale thought to himself.

"Oh, I _will_. Don't you worry, angel. I'll be just fine. Don't you worry your pretty little head about me, wandering the streets alone in the dark and the cold, at the mercy of ruffians and crackheads and loose women!"

He whipped open the door, taking a firm hold of it as he stepped out into the room beyond and then went to great strains to slam it shut behind him. It didn't quite work out, as the door was improperly fitted and simply snagged on the plush carpet as it made its way back towards the jam but Crowley didn't let this deter him. He took hold of the doorknob, opened the door up wide again, gave Aziraphale a filthy look before pulling the door shut with his entire body weight, producing a far more satisfying sound. Aziraphale, somewhat betwixt amusement and deep irritation, straightened out the lapels of his pyjama's; more as a means of instilling calm, rather than them requiring any sort of adjustment.

"Well I should think if you didn't wish to be targeted on the streets that you might dispense with the fluffy blanket, but there you go." He permitted himself just the smallest, self-satisfied and as such, deeply sinful, smile. "Should hardly think you'd have any sorts of troubles on behalf of the '_loose women_', however."

Aziraphale was just on the verge of sliding his leg back beneath the covers, when the door opened and Crowley not so much slinked as he did slough back into the room, his eyes looking larger and more the shiny than ever.

"Okay, _I'm sorry_. I know I've got a problem, angel. I don't know how to stop it." His momentary despair shifted then to something akin to fury and he pointed an accusatory finger at the increasingly flummoxed Aziraphale. "It's all your fault, you know. I never wanted to try it. You pushed it on me and now I crave it all the time! What kind of sick game is that, huh? Is that how you angels play it? Give 'em a couple of free tastes, get 'em hooked and then watch them make fools of themselves hunting for more!?"

"I didn't give you a hug because I expected it would turn you into a slathering lunatic!" Aziraphale protested, demonstrably resenting the suggestion that he had any part in provoking this absurd reaction to what he supposed to be a standard element of the 'corporeal experience'. "I hugged you because I thought that you needed it!"

"Well, I never _knew_ I ever needed it, did I?" Crowley hissed, hatefully, resentfully and verily quivering like a cement mixer in want of his next fix. He edged closer, the fluffy blanket barely finding purchase on his shoulders as his arms transgressed from tiny little tyrannosaurus-rex esque hooks into something that the Slenderman might have otherwise aspired to. "Come on... just give me one for the road."

Aziraphale couldn't have imagined he could feel more appalled (or cheapened) by the request. "I'm not just... giving you _one_ for the road!"

"Come on, you know I'm good for it." Crowley insisted, reaching out towards him now with a desperation rivalled only by the victims of the Titanic pleading with the selfish bastards in the near empty nearby lifeboats to pony up a spot. Aziraphale made well and sure to step further out of grabbing distance.

"No! You need to _stop_. This is unhealthy and quite frankly... it borders on creepy."

Crowley's eyes narrowed into vengeful little yellow slivers. A facade that might have looked more threatening if he weren't currently slumped to his knees, and clutching his midsection as though someone had just come alone and clouted him in the sternum with a two-by-four.

"What, you think you're the only one I can go to for hugs? There are plenty of people I can get it from, buddy."

Aziraphale held up both hands diplomatically. "Crowley, you _can't_ just go out in human society and start hugging people willy-nilly. That's how you ended up with that restraining order, remember?"

"Seemed somewhat of an overreaction." Crowley mused, not sounding altogether convinced himself.

"You invited yourself into his house to congratulate him over growing such 'vivacious gardenia's', so _no_, I can't say that I agree to it being an overreaction." Aziraphale paused once more to unnecessarily straighten his pyjama's. "Neither did his wife. Or would you customarily consider it to be a gesture of affection to clonk someone over the head with a wok?"

"I wouldn't have minded so much, if she hadn't been cooking stir-fry with it beforehand. Two weeks on and I'm still picking chunks of water chestnut out of my hair."

Sensing that they were about to embark on their standardized 'going about in circles' which could last well into the dawn once it gained traction, Aziraphale (more keen on sleep than he could ever quite remember being) pinched fingertips to his thumbs to form the international sign for '_zip it ever so loquacious demon_'.

"I am not trying to upset you, Crowley. I am trying to _help_ you."

"Oh, don't give me that." Crowley sniped and Aziraphale was genuinely shocked to find him moved, it seemed, to the verge of tears. It wasn't all that unusual, in that Crowley was a surprisingly sensitive demon and more susceptible to indulging those feelings when weakened by the drink, but appropriately sobering all the same. "You don't know what it's like. I've been thrown out of the place that all the people who were thrown out of Heaven were thrown into. I'm the _ultimate_ loser. I mean... it's not like I miss it. I don't even really miss Heaven, to tell you the truth. It was a shitfully boring place. Just sometimes..." He sighed, glanced down at his hands. Looking to be truly and authentically at odds with himself. "Sometimes I miss the... _feeling_. Of your brain being... _light_. All that stupid inner peace, pish." He gave Aziraphale a somewhat desperate and entirely heartbreaking look. "When you gave me that stupid hug, it was like... I was back there a while, you know? It felt good. I could just... let go. Didn't have to be drunk, didn't have to be anything but right there. So easy to go to sleep when you feel that... safe." He snorted, self mockingly. Dismissing out of hand everything he had just indulged. "Fuck, that's stupid. Stupid nonsense that is. I don't know what I'm saying."

"I do." Aziraphale said kindly, the last tiny tendril of irritation sliding back into the carapace of the seed from whence it came. He felt immediately and completely ashamed of himself for being so remiss of what was ever so obvious. It wasn't as though they hadn't discussed such things in the past, after all. Perhaps a few bottles further down the rung than was entirely necessary, but nevertheless. "And I'm so sorry. I haven't at all been looking at this from your angle."

"It's a stupid angle." Crowley critiqued, curling his lip in that way which suggested he had little time for the pointless thing he had been presented with. As per their game, Aziraphale deflected the statement.

"Oh, it's hardly stupid. You were a being of love, once. It would seem some of that original core of you remains."

Now Crowley looked truly depressed, blowing air through his pursed lips to form a dismissive horse like snort. Aziraphale just smiled to see it.

"Say what you will but those still waters run deep. Just as I have always suspected."

"Angel, please. You're killing me here." Crowley begged, looking for all intents and purposes like he would very much appreciate melting into a big puddle on the carpet and sluicing away to places where this conversation could no longer reach him. On this occasion, Aziraphale saw fit to take mercy.

"Well, I should think the most obvious solution is simply to wean you back. You may be forgiven for being a little overindulgent; given your sustained withdrawal from anything remotely resembling affection." Aziraphale chanced kneeling down, casting that ever so beatific and deeply aggravating smile over Crowley's hunkered, desolate form. "Given some practice, I'm certain you will be able to relegate your hugging into a more appropriate routine. One that does not interfere with your every day life and prohibit you from being able to function."

"You know I'm not actually strung out on meth, right?" Crowley asked, somewhat bemused by how seriously Aziraphale was taking this. Aziraphale's smile rode only the higher into the apples of his cheeks and it was somehow all the sadder than it had been moments before.

"My dear... there is no greater addiction than the craving for what has been lost."

Crowley huffed softly, Aziraphale's words having rung true with the very cruellest of irony. For he knew full well that it was not the _past_ for which he was pining. It was for a future, with the person he loved, that looked just a little bit different to the one that they were currently living. The thought had infested him, such as nothing before had ever done and tapped its rotten fingernails to the walls of his mind and allured him ever closer with softly whispered susurrations of what might be.

He was accustomed to the tempting. Never before had he been on the receiving end of it. And that was perhaps, the very cruellest irony of them all.

**~X~**

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**A/N**: Thank you for taking time out of your day to read! Note, that it is chapter four in which the plot concerning the Brand New Apocalypse starts up; these first two are really just sort of character development chapters.

If it pleases you, feel free to leave a review. It would certainly please me :) I value all kinds, including constructive criticism and even the short and sweet ones.

Thank you my darlings for you time and with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Good Omens or any of its adorable array of characters. More's the pity.

A/N: I've noticed that I have a bad habit of writing Crowley as a little ADHD; which of course stands for Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Demon. Which is actually rather fun, because he does strike me as the type who, now that the is no longer working, would find it difficult to redirect his energy and become a little dependent on Aziraphale to provide him with amusement. Kind of like a toddler, who, after being asked what it is they have in their mouth, takes off across the room with the turbo dynamic efficiency of a bullet train. … You know, I can actually see that:

Aziraphale: Crowley!  
Crowley: (Freezes, glances slowly over his shoulder)  
Aziraphale: What have you got in your mouth?  
Crowley: (Runs lankily away)  
Aziraphale: Come back here and spit it out right this minute! (Pins Crowley down and fishes a marble out of his mouth) You could have choked on that! Why on earth would you put a marble in your mouth?!

And you just know it would have been to punish Aziraphale in some way, because he hadn't been paying attention to him. 'I'll show you, I'll choke myself with this marble. How you like THAT? Oh, I see I've got your attention, NOW.'

This chapter was inspired, of course, by Crowley's once insistence on gluing coins to the sidewalk and a further exploration as to how Aziraphale might react to those instances where Crowley's demonic mischief becomes just that slightest bit malignant. I imagine that Aziraphale can put up with a great deal so far as Crowley is concerned, but not when the behaviour borders on cruelty. Hope that you enjoy it!

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**~X~**

_**~Wednesday, January 10th, 2001~ ** _

**_Polo Bar - Liverpool Street, London... _ **

Aziraphale usually had a great deal of tolerance when it came to Crowley's, for lack of a better term, 'evil doings'.

This was, at least in part, because Aziraphale himself was an Angel and patience was naturally a part of their genetic makeup but secondly and perhaps more principally so, because Crowley was... well... simply rather bad at _being_ bad.

His go to often seemed to be more along the lines of 'semi-major inconveniences', such as letting the air out of car tires and walking through wet concrete before it had set. The crown jewel of his career, he proudly attested to being the time he had brought down every mobile phone network in the London area, seconded alone by his instrumental work in designing the M25 highway by some genuinely rather skilled subterfuge, computer hacking and by moving some markers around a field during the night.

There were times, however, when his mischief encroached, if not entered at full swagger, into the realm of genuine malice. And it was on these occasions, that Aziraphale felt it something of a moral obligation (to say nothing of his celestial duties) to step in and put a stop to the otherwise uncouth behaviour.

One of these occasions came into play on a Thursday evening in the year 2001. It was January the 10th, to be precise. Twelve past six, to be even more precise. Aziraphale and Crowley were sitting at a discreet table in an otherwise non-discreet café, having a cup of tea and coffee, respectively. Aziraphale had ordered a very un-discreet chunk of key-lime pie, which Crowley was, in turn, thoroughly enjoying witnessing the consumption of.

If you were to ask as to the reason they had come together on this occasion, neither angel nor demon would be in the position to provide you with an answer, as they themselves could quite honestly not recall. Aziraphale would remember that the pie was sweet, the pastry just the right side of crumbly and that the cream was fresh. Crowley remembered that his coffee had gone cold, because he was too distracted by watching Aziraphale eat.

Demons, you see, take pleasure in seeing someone submit to their desires. They take enormous _obscene_ pleasure from it, in fact. And in Crowley's humble opinion, watching an angel quite as stuffy and buttoned down as Aziraphale practically making love to every forkful he put between his lips, felt rather as good as he imagined sex to have been. So he gathered. Though if he made anywhere near the amount of noise that humans seemed to make on some of those television shows, he would have found himself swiftly ejected from whichever restaurant they were in.

_Was all that squarking _really _necessary_? he often wondered, when inadvertently stumbling across pornography whilst flicking through tv stations of a night. _Seems a perfectly good way to distract yourself from what's going on down below. Putting all that extra energy into the 'Oooh-oooh-ah-ah' stuff._ _And for that matter... is this the sort of mess I can expect if I put in a call to maintenance about the leak under my sink? _

A question which resulted in Crowley wasting many a frivolous miracle on fixing his own appliances, rather than running the risk of some burly plumber turning up and trying to 'dredge his pipes' or something equally as terrifying. It did in fact culminate in Crowley developing a very real and very genuine fear of service people and if any _were _required to enter his apartment, he prefaced their visit by firmly explaining that no, he did not care how big their wrench was, his husband was _not _away on business and under no circumstances did he wish to be jostled about on top of the washing machine he _did not_ own, whilst it was running through the spin cycle. This resulted in some naturally rather perturbed expressions in return, but Crowley had remained so far unmolested and this was validation enough that his disclaimer had the intended effect.

If Aziraphale ever noticed the intensity in which Crowley observed him whilst eating, he said nothing of it. Crowley supposed he _couldn't_ take much notice; absorbed as he always was with his meal and the array of flavours swishing about on his celestial tongue. Even on those certain occasions when Crowley forgot himself and got a bit close, so that he was practically an inch off of the angel's plate, he didn't seem to pick up on anything untoward.

Whatever conversation they must have been having was put on hold as Crowley, taking notice of something through the window, reached across to clasp the inside of Aziraphale's elbow.

"Don't look now, we got ourselves a hot contender at ten o'clock."

Aziraphale looked to where Crowley had indicated and felt the cockles of his cherubic heart immediately chill. It was a homeless man, hunkered against the cold in a tattered brown jacket which had clearly seen much better days and with a beard that had clear cut aspirations to circumvent the plateau of the gentleman's stomach and graze the concave oasis of his bellybutton. Which was exposed from beneath what looked to be an old lavender crop top; complete with stains that Aziraphale could only hope were from food stuffs of the beige coloured variety.

"A homeless man, Crowley? Really?" He saw the demon's eyes flick briefly towards him from behind the lens of his glasses, a nasty smile playing on his lips.

"Ooh wait... yep. He's moving in for the kill." Crowley sounded just as delighted as a father might have been when holding his firstborn in his arms. Aziraphale watched, with mounting trepidation as the homeless man stopped, staring down at the footpath by the café window. His eyes may have lit up, though they were mostly obscured by the mass of tangled hair about his face but Aziraphale could tell from his body posture that he had found something which pleased him. He eased up out of his chair slightly, just enough so that he could see what it was that the homeless man had spotted.

It was an unnaturally shiny looking (preternaturally enhanced, most likely) £1 coin.

Aziraphale sank back into his seat with a frustrated sigh. "Oh, for Heaven's sake... _that_ one again?"

"The classics never go out of style, angel." Crowley said, pinching a piece of rust coloured hair between his fingers and giving it a distracted twirl. He wore it long back then, down to his shoulders and would sometimes twist it into a small bun when the front layers got to irritating him. For all his attention to grooming, he rarely looked tidy, Aziraphale thought, who, though maintaining perhaps the exact same hairstyle he'd had since the Beginning, always ensured that it was neatly presented.

The homeless man by this point had managed to bend what was clearly a very ache riddled body into a position best suited for appropriating the coin. His aged knees trembled and his fingers, protruding from a pair of stereotypical 'dwelling inhibited persons' knitted fingerless gloves looked positively wrecked by arthritis. They shook, palsy like as his grubby fingertips pinched the sides of the coin and attempted to lift it from the concrete pathway.

It didn't budge an inch.

Crowley had perhaps one of the most beautiful smiles Aziraphale had ever seen. It was a rare thing to witness and hardly ever genuine at that but when he did smile it was because he was, in his heart, one hundred and ten percent purely and blissfully happy. The unfortunate side effect of his being happy however, was that it usually coincided with someone else being miserable. Crowley had a positively radiant smile on his lips at that moment, burbling with barely suppressed joy as he observed the struggles of a near crippled, homeless man, trying in vain to pluck up a purposefully seductive looking coin that Crowley had, only a half hour earlier, glued to the footpath.

This was quite enough for Aziraphale, an angel who didn't see red so much as bellicose mauve but at that moment could very well have reached across the table and slapped the smile from Crowley's contented little face.

"You are truly _unbelievable_." He hissed, wiping his mouth on a serviette (He had lost whatever appetite he'd had, which was telling in and of itself) and rising tempestuously from his seat. Ignoring Crowley's confused expression, he reached around to the back of the demon's chair and whipped his black designer coat off of the arms. He carried it with him to the door, stepped out into the cold clasp of the night and was at the homeless man's side with much greater speed than you might have thought him capable, given his otherwise husky appearance.

"Sir, allow me." He said, with a beaming smile that stole all the way through the depths of his eyes so that his entire face seemed to radiate pure, undiluted warmth. He reached down, miracling the glue from the base of the coin and plucking it easily from the sidewalk. He placed it then, with a generous flick of his wrist into the man's knitted palm, who looked at both it and the effervescently smiling angel with a slightly nonplussed expression.

"Oh... thanks." He said, being of the type who might otherwise have not been so gracious in his embarrassment except for the fact that he was in the presence of Aziraphale. An angel who exuded so much genuinely good will that it imperatively soothed the minds of those humans he came into contact with. Usually. Sometimes it frightened them.

Aziraphale tilted his head, his smile somehow taking it up another notch so that he was near glowing with compassion. He took the homeless mans grubby hands between his own, petted them and then draped Crowley's coat over his shoulders.

"And do take this, won't you? It's frightfully cold out tonight. Wouldn't want you catching a chill."

Another gesture that might have been refused if it had not come from the likes of Aziraphale. The man accepted the coat, pulling it around the old tattered garment he was currently wearing and with a gruffly muttered note of thanks, made his way back down the street. It would not have taken him long to notice that his hands were now blessedly free from the arthritis and there was not but a remainder of the shakes and pain that had assailed his body for God knows how long. There was also no plaque on his teeth; what few remained anyway. Aziraphale had decided to throw that one in as a bonus.

He watched him go, smiling cherubically all the while as Crowley, mouth agape in pure, unfettered astonishment, loped up to join him on the sidewalk.

"Did you really just... give that old homeless guy my coat?"

Aziraphale gave him a very curt look, all the warmth he had directed at the homeless man, sequestered neatly away.

"Seems the _least_ you could do. After playing such an appalling prank on the poor fellow." He smiled a little, leaning close and lowering his voice. "It's going to be quite wonderful, actually. When he gets back to wherever he's going, he's going to find a winning scratchie ticket in the pocket for two thousand pounds."

"He's going to find a lot more than _that_; my bloody wallet and keychain are still in the damn pockets!" And just like that, Crowley swanned off down the sidewalk, so purely irritated that he didn't even stick his hands into his trouser pockets, as was his custom. Aziraphale had to scurry to keep up, his legs being far shorter than the demon's almost ridiculously long pins. (_Well, whose weren't really?_)

"Are you _seriously_ about to go and mug a homeless man of a coat that you probably just diabolicalled out of nothing anyway?!" He exclaimed between desperately gathered reefs of air. My goodness, he _was_ out of shape, wasn't he?

"Damn straight. I mean, what cheek have you got, giving away other people's belongings? Isn't that a sin in and of itself, angel?"

"I should hardly think so! Not when the coat belongings to a demon, who is having his fun at the expense of a very sick and very sad old man. If anything, it was a charity. And it_ is_ technically my job to thwart you."

"To thwart my major malpractices and misgivings not my _petty little pleasures_, you big feathered buzzkill!" Crowley was quickly gaining ground on the unsuspecting, soon to be moderately wealthy homeless man, who had actually paused long enough to stare at his hands in some confusion. Aziraphale knew he would need to act quickly, or the demon would be on him like a bad hat at a Christmas party.

He glanced about, finding that no one was looking their way and worked up the quickest minor miracle he could think of at that time; a garden rake. Crowley's booted toe came squarely down on the tines and the handle shot up, slamming into his nose and subsequently shattering the cartilage on impact.

"_AGH!_" His hands slapped to his face, knocking off his glasses in the process. Aziraphale, bug eyed and shocked by what he had done, immediately scooped them up off of the ground before they got trampled by Crowley's now maniacally dancing feet.

"You... fucking _idiot_!" The demon screamed, inadvertently alerting the homeless man to his presence in the process of unleashing all his rage. He made fast work of his newly healed body in hauling arse across the street and weaving amongst oncoming vehicles as though he were filming a parkour video for YouTube.

Crowley snarled after him, though not very efficiently as he was still staggering about with his hands clapped across his face and his eyes pinned shut to prevent the general population from seeing their true nature. Also, for virtue of the fact that they were swimming with tears. "Come _BACK_ you filth riddled, postulant ingrown rectal pubic hair waste of space transient drunken piece of shit _BUM!_! You get back here with my fucking coat or I swear to Satan,_ I'll_-"

Aziraphale held up a set of keys and jingled them to elicit Crowley's attention. The demon cracked open one weepy eye at the sound. "I took your keys and wallet out first." He tentatively reached over, tucking the wallet into the rear pocket of Crowley's pants and wedging the keys into a front pocket. "Now, let me take a look."

"Shove off. You've done enough 'good deeds' for one night, angel." Crowley snapped, shrugging his shoulder away with such exaggeration that Aziraphale knew he didn't at all mean what he was saying. He simply wanted to be chased, as per the norm.

"Well, it's not as though you didn't deserve it." He effaced, waving a finger to send the rake away and then guiding Crowley over to a nearby bus bench and encouraging him to sit. "Take your hands away?"

Crowley made a point of dropping his hands dramatically into his lap and turning his head towards Aziraphale with an unimpressed look. The yellow of his eyes clashed horribly with the red of the blood that had fairly much geysered out of both nostrils. There was a split running across the bridge of his nose that was also bleeding freely.

Aziraphale's brows creased sympathetically. Crowley may have been a demon yes, but he still felt awful for having caused him injury. They were friends after all, in spite of their being hereditary enemies. "Oh... I _am_ sorry, my dear."

"I mean what were you thinking? A _garden rake!?_ You couldn't have come up with something less destructive? Turn the cement into a travelator and shove it in reverse? Invisible wall made from invisible _sponge_? Actually just run faster and catch the Heaven up?"

"I was cross." Aziraphale conceded, passing both hands over Crowley's petulant features and siphoning off the blood. He touched his fingers to the split in his nose and guided energy into it to heal the broken cartilage. "What you did was not nice, Crowley."

"That's because I'm _not _nice!" Crowley snarled and Aziraphale flinched, having once more forgotten that it was, for whatever reason, the demon's trigger word. "When are you going to get that through your thick head? I'm a_ demon,_ in case it suits you to forget. Not like_ I_ can forget it, can I?!"

"I know, I know... I'm sorry. For the rake and for... inferring that you were anything other than a terrible demon." And at this, he did actually have to chuckle, watching Crowley flinch a little as the crack in his nose clicked together. "And you really are rather a_ terrible_ demon."

"Oh _ha_." Crowley said, pulling a face as he gingerly fingered and pinched the bridge of his nose. Finding everything in order, he gestured for his glasses to be returned and he slid them back into place. Aziraphale gasped suddenly, jolting up off the bench as though something sharp had jabbed him in the thigh. "What?"

"Oh, I just realized..." He turned and looked back the way they came, fingers clasped across his mouth despairingly. "Oh, we never paid the _bill!"_

He looked like he was about to cry. For Crowley, this was quite enough recompense for having endured the indignity of a broken nose and a lost coat.

"Hmph. Well... sucks to be them." He grinned as he clambered to his feet and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Night cap?"

Aziraphale stared at him, positively goggle eyed in response. "What do you mean 'night cap?' Clearly, I need to go back and settle our account with the cafe."

Crowley grunted his exasperation towards the sky. "_Angel_! It was like..._ ten_ pounds! It won't be the end of the world if you don't pay a ten pound tab."

"But it'll only take a moment. I could have _already_ gone and paid in the time it has taken us to have this argument."

"This is _not_ an argument. This is you, as usual, being far too good for your _own_ good." Crowley slid his wallet out from the back pocket of his trousers and opened it. There wasn't much inside. He kept some coins, for the obvious reasons (gluing them to the sidewalk, not for paying parking, of course) and a bank card to which he had linked an account that was currently in balance approximately nine point five million pounds. _(Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley had never actually earned any of the money in his possession, he'd simply opened up the bank account and miracled a number into their computer system. The rather modest sum, as it were, of ten million pounds. It seemed, to Crowley, a nice tidy amount. It was certainly much easier than miracling actual physical currency into his hands whenever he wanted to purchase something)._

He had also, in the window panel, a photograph of he and Aziraphale. Aziraphale loathed the picture, as he had been eating at the time Crowley decided to take it (by use of a technique he would later perfect and pass on to the human world in the form of 'selfies') and for that very reason Crowley thought it quite the very best picture ever and made innumerable copies of it, which he subsequently went and decorated every available surface with. Some of these copies he had forwarded to Aziraphale by courier, arranging it in such a way that Aziraphale missed the drop off at his bookshop and had to go down to the post office to pick it up. He was hardly amused when, having expended all that effort otherwise best spent on reading or enjoying a delicious meal, he opened the large box and found inside the picture, blown up to about five times its original size and encased in a gold frame with the words '_All hail Aziraphale, slayer of the dread profiterole_' emblazoned across the glass.

This however paled in gleeful comparison to the fury Aziraphale broached when he returned back to his shop and found that, in his absence, Crowley had literally wallpapered with the much hated photograph and was perched up, single malt in hand, on Aziraphale's study chair with perhaps the singularly most exquisite smile the angel had ever borne witness to.

Aziraphale himself smiled, in spite of the much maligned photograph making yet another appearance, believing that Crowley was passing over his contribution towards the tab.

"Oh. Thankyou." He said, reaching out to accept the coin that Crowley was handing him. But Crowley held it up, out of reach, pinched between the nails of his index and middle finger. He gave Aziraphale a long look over his glasses before turning his head ever so slightly and blowing gently onto the back of the coin.

Aziraphale knew precisely what he had done. He had miracled glue onto the damned thing. Sure enough, Crowley, smiling provocatively, starting slowly crouching, bringing the pound closer and closer to the pavement. Aziraphale's smile slid off of his face as a rare, unfamiliar wave of anger started rising in him like a tide of boiling water. Crowley was doing this intentionally, simply to see how far he could push him before he snapped. He'd done it before; countless times actually and never seemed to tire of getting a rise out of an otherwise eternally passive and venerable being.

Aziraphale knew quite well the game that he was playing. And, just as he always did, he fell headlong into the trap and bit the lure that had been blatantly dangled before him.

"Crowley. No._ No._Crowley stop. Stop. _Crowley_. Stop."He warned, holding up a cautionary finger which Crowley paid about as much attention to as he might have a slightly bothersome mosquito. He continued to sink slowly into a crouched position, bringing the coin closer and closer to the pavement. Grinning wickedly all the while.

"I said _stop!_" Aziraphale said and, in a moment he would look back on and think '_Why, I'm a celestial being of Heaven. Surely I could have just miracled the coin away'_ made the decision to physically intervene on the minor annoyance that was about to occur. He swooped in (_well not swooped so much as lurched in_) grabbing the demon about the wrist and attempting to wrench him upright. Because Crowley was an ageless creature in possession of a level of maturity aspired to by most overtired three year olds, he immediately (_and ineffectively_) fought back.

And so, the angel and the demon, first witnessed standing watch atop the wall of the Garden of Eden, set a stirling example for all their associated bretheren, by wrestling about like a couple of toddlers fighting over a toy. They may have been fighting still, if not for the intervention of the nearby Kebab shop owner who, having observed their childish little fracas for some time, decided that it had gone on just long enough so as to pose a potential risk to his business.

"Oi, you two!" He yelled, to which Crowley and Aziraphale, now on their feet and clothing appropriately scuffed and tugged and hair sticking out to every which way, turned to acknowledge the fact that, yes, they had gone and made a public nuisance of themselves. "I don't know what the problem is but take your lovers tiff somewhere else!"

"Oh, no. _No_, he's not my lover." Aziraphale quickly corrected, flushing to hear such a thing even though it had hardly been the first time they'd been mistaken as such. Crowley, having not the least intention of clearing up said misunderstanding, leaned in and took to exaggeratedly kissing the side of Aziraphale's face and neck. "I don't even know him."

"Well he certainly seems to know _you_." Said the kebab shop owner, obviously unconvinced. Aziraphale slapped at Crowley's hands, which were attempting to slide around his hips.

"_Would you stop that?!_ Look, terribly sorry to have disturbed you. We'll be on our way."

Satisfied that they were no longer blocking his doorway, the kebab shop owner moved on with his life, returning to the underrated and not terribly well appreciated art of preparing food for university students, stoners and teenage binge drinkers. Crowley continued his laborious and over the top attentions until the door to the shop had shut and then he twirled on his heel, laughing to the sky as he sauntered on down the sidewalk, hands returned to the labrynth of his pockets as per the norm.

"Well if_ that_ doesn't make us the talking point of the fast food demographic, then nothing will!" He crowed, chuckling with unabashed delight to himself as Aziraphale wiped at the saliva peppered across his face and neck with his handkerchief, realizing, as he did that the coin had affixed itself to his right palm.

"I_ do_ wish you wouldn't do that." He grumbled, passing a finger across the coin so that the glue dispersed. As per his angelic nature, he did not pocket it but instead handed it back to Crowley, who plucked it up and returned it to his wallet.

"What, you embarrassed to be seen with me, angel?" He gave a mock pout. "Think you can do better?"

"It's not that I _think_ I can do better, it's that I have no _desire_ to do better." Aziraphale established and then, because Crowley got a look on his face that he wasn't quite certain how to interpret, added: "What I mean is..." He stuttered, feeling his cheeks warm with a blush that he was never quite able to reign in. Even after centuries attempting to do so. He took a moment to compose himself; choose the right words. "That's not the sort of matter that is of interest to angels. We have a higher duty."

Crowley twisted his lips to the side, unconvinced. "Mmhmm. You've also got a human body. Human bodies come with urges."

"Oh, hardly." Aziraphale gave a dismissive tut. "Perish the thought."

He allowed his indignation to fill the otherwise silent void just long enough to sufficiently make his point. A point which he then went and shot to shit, by asking:

"Do you... I mean does... your body sometimes come with... _that_?" It annoyed him that Crowley looked to be all too readily amused by his embarrassment. "The uh... the urges, I mean?"

Crowley actually mulled on this a moment longer than Aziraphale thought he would. "Hmm. Sometimes."

"Do you ever... or rather, _have_ you ever... acted on them?"

"What, with a _human?_" Crowley's brow lifted curtly into the lines of his forehead, showing precisely what he thought of this suggestion. He scoffed. "Uck. _Perish the thought_, angel. Why the heaven would I wanna go there? Nah, it only happens every once in a while. Seems to coincide a bit with planetary retrograde, I've noticed. Can sort it out myself when it does."

A thought which made Aziraphale feel more than just the slightest bit uncomfortable. "Please. I _hardly_ need all the gory details."

Crowley chuckled. "I didn't give you _any_ details. Come on, you don't have to act all unimpeachable with me, angel. Natural side effect of the corporeal condition, the urges. Ain't nothing sinful about working them out."

"Well, I wouldn't know." Aziraphale established curtly, straightening out his lapels and tidying his ruffled hair as best he was able. He wondered if the blush in his face would ever recede at some juncture. "Because, as I earlier mentioned, I _don't_ have them."

Crowley's upper body jerked with not at all cleverly disguised laughter. Aziraphale, on edge as it was, didn't much appreciate the reaction, nor the lack of effort put into containing it.

"Why are you laughing?"

"You know me, angel." He sighed, gifting him a genuinely fond smile that was much more pleasant than any of his more outwardly beatific ones. "Us demon's... we love a good sin."

This certainly confused Aziraphale. "What sin?"

"_Lying..._" Crowley drawled softly. Knowingly. He tapped a finger to one of the buttons on Aziraphale's waistcoat, which was hanging by a thread and it zipped neatly back into place, adding pressure once more into the rise of his stomach. Crowley's fingers lingered on the overlapping halves of the waistcoat, on the pretence of straightening it. His warm breath lit flush to Aziraphale's ear, his words not nearly so confident as he might have otherwise wanted them to be. He was insecure at times and never the more when he might have broached the shallow den in which his vulnerability slumbered. "You let me know if you need any... _help_ if the urge takes you. _When_ it takes you." And because Aziraphale was staring back at him with something that wasn't quite altogether shock, he added: "None of Them would ever have to know. _You know...?_"

"Oh, please. Don't be so ridiculous." Aziraphale snapped, taking Crowley's wrists and yanking his hands firmly away from him. "The very suggestion... you've quite certainly lost your senses!"

He started making his way back up the street, yanking and tugging and realigning clothing that in no way shape or form required attending to. It was easier to focus on this then to let his thoughts run freely.

"Where are you going?" Crowley drawled tiredly after him, ever so uniquely practiced as he was with effacing boredom whilst in the grip of otherwise more turbulant emotions. Aziraphale spun back towards him, his facial expression more readily akin to someone who had just received news that a wealthy relative was terminally ill and knew full well that they were the only person in the immediate family who hadn't been included in the will.

"I'm going back to pay the sodding bill!" He yelled, gesticulating back over his shoulder towards the lights of the not-so-distant cafe. Crowley, looking aloof and selectively uncaring as usual, twitched his cheek and returned his hands to the safety of his pockets.

"A'right then. Might see you later for a night cap. Cheerio."

He sauntered off into the night, passing a hand lazily back over one shoulder as he went. Aziraphale watched him go, feeling more confused by the moment as to just what strangeness had transpired between them.

He thought it a very unfair thing, really, for Crowley to suggest that he might simply 'act' on his urges. Yes, he had been lying when he said that he didn't have them. Of course he did. Much fewer and further between than humans and linked more intrinsically with an Angel's inherent, natural capacity of love but they drifted in on the tides all the same. He was never quite sure what to do with them.

Crowley had obviously figured it out. Little surprise there, he was a demon. He didn't possess much in the way of shame.

It was different for Aziraphale. Of course, he was no fool. (Though others might disagree and vocally, at that). He'd been around a very long time, he knew quite well the process by which humans alleviated the urges. But it always seemed to him a kind of obscene, impure thing, far from Heavenly, so to speak. And so he had never attempted it. He supposed that may have been part of the reason he equated so much pleasure with eating. An unconscious means of satiated unmet needs by burying it under delicious quantities of gourmet food.

Crowley too had his own unique set of pleasures. His mischiefs. His pranks. His oft uncharitable attempts to drown ducks and choke them with too large pieces of bread that he refused to render down to safe gobbling up size. But he had clearly accepted his human bodies limitations and found a means to satisfy its biological demands. Without want of going out and finding a human partner with which to do it.

It came as something of a relief to Aziraphale that Crowley had not stooped to such a thing. He liked humans, he'd often said so, but minimalistically at that. He reminded Aziraphale a little of a person whom, having confessed to being a dog person, was then forced to live their life in the company of a roomful of cats. He didn't like them quite as much as he liked dogs but he put up with them all the same, just with no true depth of affection. Certainly not enough affection to want to have sex with any of them.

Aziraphale felt another blush warm through his neck and encapsulate his cheeks from below as he pushed open the door to the café and stepped up over the stoop.

Was that truly what Crowley had been insinuating? Sex?

_How would something like that even work?_ Aziraphale wondered and then quickly banished the thought as it attempted to spill over into something that would likely send him to blushing for weeks on end. He approached the counter, putting on his most contrite and magnanimous smile as he made his apologies for rushing out the way he had and, as was his custom, leaving an extra large tip as means of an apology.

It was a moot point anyway, Aziraphale knew, having made his amends and contented as such to return back to his bookshop but a few streets down. _Urges or not, I _cannot_ act on them. It would be impossible. They come part and parcel with feelings of love and those feelings of love come, more often than not now, with Crowley._

And Crowley was a demon. A demon who very well may have loved him just as much in return but that was irrelevant.

The differences were irreconcilable. There was simply no bridging the immeasurable, unseeable but ever present divide that fell between them. He had told Crowley once, so many years back that he '_went too fast for him_'. He wanted to reach a place which Aziraphale knew, full well, was unreachable.

And of course it didn't matter whether any of 'Them' were to find out. That was hardly the point. The physicality of any sort of relationship was always secondary to the emotional aspect. Crowley, it seemed, for all his puff and pomp, was always just teetering on the edge of acting something out, of saying something _more_, of _asking_ something more. His pride was his enemy and one which Aziraphale was honestly quite relieved to have in his own corner. It prohibited Crowley from speaking out, for risk of looking like a fool, for being made vulnerable and potentially small and weak and foolish and that was something he could no sooner abide than he could with being labelled '_nice_'. He would do nothing, _risk nothing_, until Aziraphale moved first.

Oh sure, Crowley might make his little insinuations here and there. But he would be certain not to make it appear as though he were in any way invested in them. There were times though, especially when his feelings were heightened, that he seemed to almost tremble with an internal ache, from so much intense and convoluted depth of feeling pressing sharp edges into the corners of his soul. When his eyes and gaze took on that hint of genuine desperation, underpinned by an unheard yet plaintively resounding plea for Aziraphale to just... grant him _something_. Some reassurance, some clarity, _something_.

But Aziraphale couldn't. Not then. Not ever. Crowley was Fallen. And no matter how much he might have loved him and could not envision a world in which he was not a part, it was impossible to then imagine a world in which they might be together.

It would have to be a world in which neither Heaven nor Hell existed.

Aziraphale might have wept then; for the dreadful state of it all. For the earth, for Heaven, for Hell and for all the souls betwixt and between and the unsurpassable chasm which had been carved between them all by the Almighty's hand.

All part of the ineffable plan.

He _might_ have wept, but he had arrived at the bookstore by then and he could see Crowley, already inside, having helped himself to a glass of scotch and dancing with a broom to the piercing strains of Renata Tabaldi. It was a sight quite enough ease his doldrums and, with that ever present warm-hearted smile returning to his face, he set once more aside the ineffable ponderings of the universe and relinquished himself to yet another evening of drunken discussions concerning the various utilizations of the 'I' sound, whether Crowley's new centuries resolution in learning how to play the hurdy-gurdy was time well spent (it wasn't) and why it was that Noah had seen fit to eschew the likes of griffins from the ark but provide standing space to tics and millipedes and the Cape Rain Frog. The scream of which, Crowley naturally attempted to emulate with such success that it resulted in a woman passing by the book shop to faint dead away, right in the midst of her trying to pick up a coin that was, for some reason, simply refusing to budge.

**~X~**

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**A/N**: I've been re-watching the show with a couple of friends who haven't yet seen it, and every time Aziraphale and Crowley are on screen together, just... doing what it is that they do, the non-stop chorus of 'Awwwww' was simply resounding. We all unanimously agreed that Aziraphale and Crowley are A.) In love and B.) Already an old married couple. Even my husband found it difficult to ignore the chemistry and I do believe he made quite the concerted attempt to do so. "They're just friends." Response: "Pfft. What have _you_ been watching?"

Thanks for reading my lovelies! If you enjoyed, feel free to express yourself. Even if it is just in the form of doing a happy little dance whilst rubbing instant custard through your hair. Whatever floats your boat, as they say! Until next time and with all my infernal love,

~Madammortis~ xxx ooo


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Good Omens. I am just writing fanfiction. Do not sue, there is no point, I am a poor social worker and I have none of Crowley's imaginary money.

**A/N:** (Factoid 2) One that keeps me up at night is the question as to how Aziraphale actually got around to learning the gavotte. Did he in fact join a discreet gentleman's club, knowing that this was the only place he was likely to learn the dance (and if so, just how compelling did the gavotte seem to him if he simply _had_ to have learned it) or did he just join a discreet gentleman's club and find out later that the gavotte was part of the deal?

And in so saying, just what is a 'discreet gentleman's club' anyway? Is this a club where men of the 1800's went to be discretely gay? Was Aziraphale aware of this? Or, assuming he didn't just join with the express purpose of learning the gavotte, did he join up thinking that it was a place that male type person's could be discreet about any number of things? Perhaps he thought that this was a safe place where he could open up about being an angel? And they all just sort of accepted this and humoured it as some manner of eccentric upper class quirk, and thereafter adopted him as their adorable fluffy haired mascot, who they would repeatedly try to get into the pants of. And Aziraphale would have been none the wiser of course; far too beguiled by the incomparable splendour of the gavotte.

Then I just imagine Crowley coming along and being like 'For fucks sake, he's about three minutes away from being gang humped and he doesn't even know it.' As Aziraphale just continued to dance away with that blissfully ignorant smile on his face, totally oblivious to all the men hunkered around him, huffing and panting with barely suppressed sexual frustration.

Keeps me up at night, folks.

But on a more serious note: I actually had to put a lot of thought into this chapter. Namely concerning the use of pronouns and secondarily as to some gender identity/genitalia based stuff. Anything I have written here is of course my own opinion, of which I have formulated after having had some serious thoughts on the issue, but should of course not be taken as cannon. I went with what I felt the television show had already mainly set in motion and tried to keep that flowing through as much as possible. Of course, there is no offense intended if I did in fact portray anything incorrectly or misused pronouns, etc. That is a fault on my part and does not at all reflect or embody any negative feelings towards any individual; especially in regards to how they may or may not wish to identify. I am one hundred percent on people being happy and comfortable at days end!

I hope that you enjoy the read and I shall see you at the end of the chapter with some further comments!

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**~X~**

The thing about every great plan, is that it usually comes with a contingency plan.

The arrangement is universal and symbiotic. After all, you need something to fall back on if your first course of action ultimately goes tits up.

Take an outdoor wedding, for example. Weddings are typically planned months to years in advance. There's a lot of variables to consider. Whether the flowers match the groomsmen's boutonnieres. Whether you've picked the right song to walk down the isle to. Even those demonstrably unexpected happenstances such as the hoop in the brides train being inserted correctly, so that it does not sit at an uncomfortable, ankle knocking angle.

And in spite of the human race spending an enormous amount of time and resources on the insistence of needing_ some_ idea as to what the weather might, from one day to the next, have in store for them, accurately predicting it is still quite a ways off.

For an outdoor wedding, you need to consider an indoor option. Just in case it rains. _This_ is a contingency plan. All good plans have one.

And the Armageddon, or '_The Great Plan_' as most of those involved in its otherwise _not-having happened_, was no exception.

Of consequence however, it did distinguish itself from most other contingency plans by remaining unknown to both parties to which it predominantly related: that of Heaven and that of Hell. The human race would be so lucky as to even accurately take a stab at the weather, so quite naturally they were none the wiser as to its existence.

But God knew, of course. It was She who had drafted the plan, after all. As to the reason's why, well, they were of course, as they have always been, ineffable.

Those who knew the Archangel Gabriel well might admit themselves surprised to find that these were considerations of poor consolation, even to one who might be considered blindly loyal of and accepting of the Almighty's mysterious workings. It was however, even so far as he was concerned, bewildering. Especially so, given that he and the select few of his Pantheon had been asked to meet with the foremost political representatives of Hell, to discuss it.

This very meeting was set to take place on Saturday the 2nd of February, in a public bar located in a shabby subset of London where Gabriel might have felt himself overdressed, if he was in any way shape or form insightful as to how he might reflect and or adjust himself so as to accurately reflect his environment.

He was in the company of the rest of the Celestial council; Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon and of course, one mustn't go forgetting the ever the more routinely forgotten about, Joel.

There was a reason as to why Joel was so unapologetically unrememberable. Though an Archangel, instated in equal standing to that of Michael, Gabriel and Uriel themselves, she was not often ascribed to active duty, employed predominantly as an in-house messenger.

It was she whom had received the initial summons via Epheme-mail and she, as such, who had been charged with personally conveying its dictation.

The five wary celestials were immediately and discretely chaperoned by a non-distinctive bar person into a back room which, in days past, might very well have been described as 'hazy with cigarette smoke' and 'vaguely smelling of lap dances long since dead'. Smoking laws and an underhanded facility conversion in the eighties had changed things, much to the particular relief of Gabriel, who verily detested the putrid stench of cigarette smoke (to say nothing of humans who removed their garments in exchange for monetary donations) and whom had been instrumental in having banned the practice from most every corner of Heaven.

It had given him some enormous personal satisfaction to have witnessed the earth bound celestial agent Aziraphale hunkering out by the front gate, in the days that he _had_ smoked, hastily trying to suck in as much of the cigarette as quickly as possible so as to not inconvenience anyone. It used to result in him coughing and spluttering even more awkwardly through meetings, which Gabriel found to be just as about enjoyable as it was deeply aggravating. Served him right really, for having taken up some an awful human addiction and further sullying what was already a considerably besmirched celestial body.

The five angels had barely time to make themselves comfortable let alone contemplate helping themselves to a peanut from the bowl centre table (though they would of course never _actually_ partake) before the door swung inwards and they were joined by the emphatically unimpressed likes of Lord Beelzebub, Dukes Hastor and Dagon and King Purson; whose main purpose for attending was to differentiate fact from fiction during the proceedings. Not that angels were known for their capacity to bandy bullshit but in matters quite so strange as this, there was simply no room for complacency.

"Lord Beelzebub. Lovely to see you again." Gabriel greeted, effacing a toothed grin which might almost have suggested that he genuinely found the situation to be quite as delightful as he was pretending it to be. He possessed even the angelic decorum (quite remiss on behalf of the fallen and all the best with which to remind them of it) to stand when his demonic counterpart had entered the room.

Beelzebub gave a tired, rather careless offhand glance towards Gabriel, though had little concerns with accepting the seat which he had pulled out for them.

Lord Beelzebub, for all their barely contained power, (secondary only to the actual Lord of Darkness himself), was... unassuming in appearance. Petitely framed, pale blue eyes set in a soft face and wearing a large fuzzy hat in the style of a characterized blow-fly, you would hardly suspect them as being supreme warden over most of Hell.

This outward façade was, of course, vastly different as to how they appeared below ground. All the demons had slapped their very best guises on for this meeting; though some did so more effectively than others. Hastur's scraggly toupee barely covered the symbiotic toad which was integrated into the rear of his skull. King Purson had a series of black spider like legs encasing his neck from behind like some manner of grisly choker. They twitched every once in a while as well, which was highly disconcerting.

"It iz a strange business, thiz." Lord Beelzebub remarked, tucking their short legs underneath the table and reclining in their chair such that you could sense the inherent nobility they possessed. Even whence clothed in such an innocuous guise.

"Can we get on with it?" Duke Hastur grumbled, twisting most of his lower face off to the side to form an unmistakable grimace. "Don't much fancy having to hang around with a cloud of puffed up poxy angels much longer than I need to."

"You're a fine one to talk about being 'puffed up'." Sandalphon commented, drawing back his upper lip to reveal a questionable set of gold inlays sectioned between each of his long teeth. "Looked in a mirror lately, have you?"

"_Enough_." Uriel said firmly, cutting off whatever remark Hastur might have been set to make in response. "We assume that you have received the same message as us?"

"Showed up right on top of my in-tray." Dagon, Lord of the Files remarked in her usual croaky voice. Her teeth, in spite of her best efforts to cap them, still appeared altogether too sharp whence compared to a human's. "Jumped right on off the top of the other files and bit me on the hand."

She held up a badly bandaged hand as evidence of the event; a bandage which looked stained and crusty and likely in desperate need of changing at least three days earlier. Michael offered a fulsome smile, underpinned by what was a plainly condescending undertone to the words which followed.

"An indelicate system. Have you actually considered switching to something more modern? An internal electronic mailing scheme, for example? I'm certain you would find it ever so helpful in running your operations more... efficiently."

"Bit damp to run live cables down below._ Love_." Dagon replied, twitching her nose in a gesture just as derisively in return. Beelzebub held up a hand; their expression quite as bored and unconcerned as ever but a genuine note of reproach evident in their otherwise sombre tone.

"Enough with the back and forth. It'z getting us nowhere. We've been asked to meet and so, we're meeting." They drummed their slender fingers on the arms of the chair. Glanced about as though anticipating someone else, previously unnoticed, loitering in the room. "Do we have any idea when this...?"

As though it had been perfectly timed (which of course, it had) the door swung inwards and a humble International Express delivery man, whom they might very well have recognized if it had been one of their 'respective departments', entered the room.

If Beelzebub's appearance was considered to be unassuming, than the delivery man's was positively sub-assuming by comparison. With a pinched, almost rodent like face, a figure much like that of a frog if you were to stand it up on its back legs and in possession of an aura, so thick with the threatening stench of the unfailingly chipper early morning riser, his was perhaps the singular most unusual addition to what was already a fairly kooky assemblage.

"Right you are. Sorry to interrupt your meeting but my instructions were _very_ specific. Have this in one of your good hands by no later than 6:15pm BST."

He took from beneath his arm a plastic cannister. A cannister which, at some stage of its transition, had acquired a particularly fetching sweat patch from the delivery man's armpit. He set it on its end, centre of the table and got to ticking things off on his clipboard.

Whilst he was crossing his T's and dotting his I's, the steward from earlier arrived back in the room and started to take drink orders. The angels of course had nothing, for they did not imbibe and had absolutely no desire (unlike a certain other perfidious once-angel) to 'tarnish the temple of their celestial bodies'. The demons, however, were all up for a good tarnishing and made up for the angel's lack of enthusiasm by ordering a medley of drinks each so elaborate from the next, you might have thought them trying to outdo one another. Which they might very well have been. Gabriel thought that Beelzebub's choice of a chocolate martini and a bag of Bacon flavoured crisps to be especially unique, though it did serve the dual purpose of putting all the angels on edge from the open mouthed crunching that the chips were being subjected to.

"A dying breed, these old pubs. Right proper shame. Don't make them like they used to. Just, ah... need someone to sign for this." The delivery man held out the clipboard and pen in a vague '_anyone can jump in_' sort of gesture. Gabriel went to rise from his seat but was somewhat surprised to see both Joel and Purson step forward, almost as though in a trance and sign each of the two lines that had been placed adjacent to one another. Joel of course, by celestial feather and Purson by igniting the tip of his finger by his tongue. As the delivery man doffed his cap, slipped the clipboard beneath his arm and marched from the room, Michael gave Joel what might very well have been a censorious look, if coming from a more unrefined being.

"Do you know more about this than what you have made us aware of, Joel?"

Joel took the cannister, having granted Purson a very prudish '_don't even think about it_' face and returned to the side of the room in which her own people were gathered. "Only that I need sign, along with... King Purson, as formal recipients of the cannister and its contents. It was in the instructions we received."

"Let'z get on with then." Beelzebub drawled, picking up their drink and taking a rather slurpy and vainglorious gulp from the contents. Leaving a brown milky moustache upon their upper lip in the process. It took everything in Gabriel's power to not reach across with his handkerchief and wipe their face clean.

"Indeed. I'm not certain how much longer I can tolerate the smell in here." Sandalphon said, with a distasteful sniff quite obviously directed towards Hastur. Hastur, who looked quite prepared to hurl the pearl onions from his martini at the angel.

"You got a problem with me, wank-wings, I'd be more than happy to take it outside."

"_NO ONE_ iz going outside!" Beelzebub snapped, for the first time that evening expressing something other than omnipresent boredom. They rubbed at their temples before waving a hand somewhat contrarily towards Gabriel. "My apologies."

"Quite all right." Gabriel responded congenially. They had something of a bizarre yet authentically shared empathy the two of them, fairly much charged with the wrangling in of their respective people and the understanding as to just how exhausting such an undertaking could be. "Joel. If you'd be so kind?"

Joel unscrewed the top of the cannister; though it took a good two to three goes before she managed to do so successfully. From within came a golden holy light, along with a soft chorus of intermingled voices, harmonising to some song never to be heard nor repeated the same way twice. A page unfurled, quite whiter than anything which could ever possibly be attained on earth. It held itself in the air high above the table, unaided by any visible force and the voice of the Almighty herself, not that of the Metatron, spoke. Reading aloud the words that were, for reasons best known only to itself, being systematically subtitled across the length of the page as it unfurled.

And so said the Lord:

**_"Greetings to all of those whom are gathered here; my Archangels Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, Joel, my Seraphim of might, Sandalphon. And greetings extended in the same love and reverence to my fallen children, in the names to which you are now ascribed; Lord Beelzebub, Dukes Dagon and Hastur and King Pursor; protector of truths and exfoliator of all untruths._**

**_Hear now, the word of God; unequivocal, inarguable and categorically According to Hoyle, as so the saying goes._**

**_I disclaim that if such words have reached you, that it has come to pass that the End Times, of which I'm certain you were most eager to partake, has not in fact __come to pass. I extend my condolences, for I understand well that such disappointment is difficult to process_ _and you were all so very much looking forward to it_.**

**_Into your hands, I hereby submit this: The instructions pertaining to the, as hereafter referred, Contingency Plan. The beginning stage, of which, has been subsequently set in motion by your attendance here tonight."_**

Gabriel glanced at Beelzebub, who mouthed '_contingency plan_?' whilst taking an indolent swipe at their frothy upper lip with their index finger. Having no answer as of yet, Gabriel returned his attention to the scroll.

**_"In the event that Armageddon does _not_ transpire and or/the anti-Christ denies his/her part in preceding events culminating in the ending of this world, the Contingency plan will be brought into quick and immediate effect._**

**_The outcome of the aforementioned Contingency Plan shall result in the what hence forth shall be referred to as the Apex. The process by which humanity, angels and demons alike are to be judged. With the Earth being a Libra and as such, requiring ever always an imperative balance, I declare as of this moment, all active celestial and demonic intervention on Earth, shall cease."_**

There were quite a few exchanges of shocked expressions at this one. No one seemed to quite know what to think. Hastur was attempting to clean large chunks of violently yellow wax from his ear; obviously feeling that he had misheard whatever it was that God had just said.

**_"Humanity shall be divided down the middle, evaluated regards the balance of virtues versus vices espoused to their eternal spirit. This final push shalt secure the last remaining souls on earth to both Heaven and to Hell respectively, in preparation for the coming of this; the Apex._**

**_Instigation shall occur one week as from today and culminate one year from now on the same date, at the same hour._**

**_All souls shall be collated. And all shall be corrected._**

**_As a means of ensuring impartiality in such conjectural matters, I have assigned to the undertaking of the Contingency Plan a team of freelancers; The Seven Principle Virtues and the Seven Capital Vices. During this time of procurement, I enforce, most stringently and with utmost severity, that under no circumstances are the Contingency Team to be impacted, influenced or otherwise waylaid by the efforts of any agent either affiliated with Heaven or Hell. Those of you who may attempt to do so, shall be contracted as such to receive incontestable and expedient routing by the agents of the Contingency Team. You shall find the stipulations pertaining to this pre-established contract as every angel, either remaining or fallen, to have signed when first initiating service to me. Damnation to Hell alters nothing in this regard. The contract stipulates compliance under most every circumstance._**

**_In precisely two minutes, you will receive the first four of the Contingency Team. They will be thirsty, and so three waters shall be brought to the table, along with a pint of Guinness, Full Strength. Have them sign the attached documents and file these as appropriate. Subsequent contracts shall be forwarded to the remaining members of the team independently of your assistance._**

**_These are my words. Go forth now and prepare your people in whatever ways you deem fit. Blessings be upon you."_**

The scroll, having finalized its indentured message, coiled in upon itself and dropped to the table like a love letter screwed up and tossed aside by an anxious teenager. Four thick stapled documents, each appearing quite as identical as the next, appeared in its wake, before then dropping to the table and neatly framing the peanut bowl in a fanlike shape. The room was silent as a collective; angels and demons alike for once as equally gobsmacked as the next.

"Earth... divided down the middle?" Dagon spoke at last, her Gibson all but forgotten. Beelzebub, having processed quite a bit more of what had been said, tried to clear it up as much as was possible.

"From what it soundz like, this... Contingency Team are going to be assigned to earth and made responsible for dividing up all currently existing human souls." They gestured with first the palm of their hand and then turned it over, as though flipping a pancake. "No grey area. Black and white. The Vices and Virtues will influence each soul most heavily in the direction they already predominately lean. Exacerbate their inner most capacity for either good or evil. Strive them to act upon their inner most desires. Or lack, thereof."

"Condemn or elevate." Gabriel said, a feeling quite unlike anything he had ever experienced before settling hard and heavy in the walls of his human chest. For the first time in his entire long existence, he was positively, unequivocally baffled.

"Creating a perfect balance." Michael added, sharing much the same feeling as Gabriel. Hiding it perhaps only slightly better.

"So that no one side is stronger than the other..." King Pursor rounded off, slugging back from his Carlsberg with quite a bit more verve than he had initially demonstrated. Obviously wishing he had now ordered something stronger.

"It'z strange." Beelzebub murmured, having sat up in their seat much to everyone's surprise and setting down their drink so as to press their fingertips together upon the table top. Not a one of the dark council gathered could ever remember having seen their disgraceful superior so concerned. Exempting the time that the demon Crowley had been condemned to a bath of Holy water and had simply splashed about in the damned thing, still wearing his socks and asking for a rubber duck. "I thought that the Vicez and the Virtuez were long retired?"

"They were._ Are_." Gabriel confirmed, having experienced something quite as strange as his ongoing consternation was, in the form of rather wanting to partake of a human drink. He shook the thought aside. Polluting his mind and body with that muck was not likely to help matters any. "They're also very good friends."

Beelzebub nodded, having a vague memory of this themselves. "To make them work against one another... It doesn't make much sense. They're... complimentary. Two sidez of the same coin."

"A balance." Uriel re-established, in line with the Lord's early words. "Used to subvert the balance within a human's heart. Tip the scales in favour of one side, or the other."

Hastur scoffed a little, plucking one of the pearl onions out of his drink and crushing it messily between his back teeth. "'Spose the almighty thinks herself very clever with all that heavy handed symbolism."

"So what does this all mean then?" Sandalphon asked, his round face having lost its early scrunched up rictus of demonic distaste and now possessing something akin to, if such an emotion were readily available to someone like Sandalphon, fear.

"It means," Lord Beelzebub said, sinking back into their seat and bringing the last dregs of chocolate martini back up to their lips. "That your boss has royally _fucked_ us all. I'd put oddz at her being ticked over our handling of the Apocalypse and now She's decided to take matterz into her own hands and hire in these freelancers to do our jobs for us. Simply put, we're in timeout."

Gabriel thought that there was nothing at all simple about what was going on. But a thought far worse, was the niggling suspicion that Lord Beelzebub was _right_. Though he was not an angel at all accustomed to questioning that which he believed to be incontrovertibly true, there was simply something about this entire situation which did not rest at all well with him. He glanced towards the cannister, mauve eyes narrowed as something written upon the senders label set to tickling at the corners of his contumacious brain.

He did not have long to think on it, however. And perhaps that was just as intended. The doors swung inward. And the first of the Contingency Team arrived.

* * *

_**~Saturday, February 2nd - 2019~** _

_ **The Ritz - London, Mayfair...**_

Meanwhile, in a considerably more upmarket part of town, another angel and demon were, in direct juxtaposition to their once not-so-esteemed colleagues, actually _enjoying_ the company in which they kept. Partaking, as they did, of a particularly delicious post dinner _aperitivo_.

The demon, though resplendent as ever in the company of his most very favourite person, (if such a word could be applied to a demon with the usual dreary countenance of Anthony J. Crowley) was nevertheless feeling a tad uncomfortable, and had taken to squirming in his seat with a sulky twist of his lips, trying without success to rub at an unseen spot on his back.

"Must you keep fidgeting?" The angel named Aziraphale asked, having tolerated this rather unsubtle display for the better part of forty-five minutes. "It's rather taking all the pleasure out of this marvellously cheeky Courvoisier Cognac."

Crowley was every bit as annoyed by the fidgeting as Aziraphale, though admitting as to why would only likely cause the demonstrably self-conscious angel to likely sink down into his dinner jacket like a frightened turtle.

It wasn't simply that he was uncomfortable, but the fact that he _was_ uncomfortable had distracted him in his usual routine of actively enjoying watching Aziraphale imbibe. He felt quite as he was certain a human being must have felt, when their physical pleasure had been allowed to crescendo only to come crashing back down dramatically from the highest peak. It had left him feeling very pent up and annoyed and not at all sleepy, which he might otherwise have been in the same situation.

"Sorry. I've just got this... rotten pain in the... back." Crowley grumbled, slumping back into his seat, wincing at said pain and taking a rather belaboured sip from his cognac as a means of combating it.

Aziraphale glanced around surreptitiously before placing his own snifter down, ever so elegantly and setting one of his deftly manicured hands down upon the tablecloth.

"In... one of your..." He lowered his voice, though what point there was in doing so Crowley couldn't imagine, for the tables were all spaced generously apart (you of course paid for such a privilege) and their fellow diners had eyes and ears only for each other. "_Wings?_"

Crowley grunted, a grunt which encompassed so many unforeseen layers of complexity and pushed his left shoulder blade against the back of the chair. "Think so. Something's definitely not right."

"Seems strange. Coming from one who is as... _meticulous_ with such... things as you." Aziraphale said pointedly, taking up his glass once more and sipping the contents with quite the respect that it deserved. Why Crowley insisted on throwing back the finest top shelf as though it were little better than bargain store mouth wash, never ceased to astonish and offend him.

"This coming from an angel who acts as though his wings aren't even there." Crowley shot back, annoyed with himself now for having sucked his drink in as quickly as he had. He glanced about for the poncy looking steward with the drinks trolley and placed a thought into his mind to stop what he was doing and come straight over the table to top Crowley's glass up. "Every time you unfurl your wings, a cloud of dust bunnies and silverfish come flying out. And socks, there was a _sock_ in there once."

"Well, it's easier for a demon who _persists_ in remaining unemployed to simply spend his idle hours attending to such things. I, on the other hand, have a business to run and all the distractions that come first and foremost with that." Aziraphale flashed his companion a look which might very well have been indignant, if the angel had not gone to some effort to be too haughty to properly efface it. "And you know full well it wasn't a sock. ...It was a handkerchief."

"Yeah. A handkerchief full of f_ood crumbs_. Let's not go forgetting that time you picked up wing nits as well."

Aziraphale looked quite so offended that if this was a bar in the more seedy underskirt of town, a lambent fly would have found the awning cavern of his mouth entirely impossible to resist. "I had been sitting in the clinic reception and rubbing wings with all manner of afflicted celestials! I hardly see how it's _my_ fault that any of their contagions saw fit to fling themselves off of their unhygienic hosts and espouse themselves upon _my_ body!"

By this stage, you're probably wondering just what on earth the pair are going on about. Allow me to explain:

Wings. Angels have them. Demon's have them. Ducks have them. Emu's have them, but don't utilize them very effectively. Penguins have flippers, but then they fall in love and mate for life, so they clearly have no concerns as to needing to fly the coop at any stage. Good for them. It's so rare to find decent old fashioned morals amongst the aviary world these days.

But back to angels and demons. Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are not entirely different to those of their angelic counterparts. They are, as many would deem appropriate, black in colour, whereas an angel's are of course, white. There were both positives and negatives to each. Black was slimming but tended to get hotter in the warm weather. White, as you can imagine, could look ethereal and translucent and holy. But they were a _bitch_ to keep clean. Never order spaghetti if an angel has their wings out at the dinner table.

Angels were notorious for having difficulties in maintaining proper wing hygiene. Wings required rigid upkeep and attention, which could be difficult as they were, especially for a once earthbound agent such as Aziraphale, tucked into a intangible sub-pocket located in the assigned body and could be seen only when consciously expanded. The same was true of course of Crowley.

Another area in which angels and demons differed however, was in respect to upkeep.

Crowley was, as Aziraphale so mockingly stated, fastidious with such things. Most demons were, as a matter of fact. Wings were a direct component of the spiritual body, rather than the earthbound one and as such, any injuries they received or any care they required, had to be undertaken manually, rather than by use of a healing spell.

There were Heaven and Hell based Wing Care Clinics whose dedicated staff were responsible in providing ongoing care and maintenance support to the wings of their supernatural clientele. Almost entirely reminiscent of a barber shop; rather with piles of old frayed feathers lining the floor and of course, much more space assigned between chairs. And naturally very chatty-cathy Wing Care technicians.

Perhaps they were more considerate in the Heaven based Wing Clinic; Crowley wasn't sure. But any demon with but an ounce of sense in their head, would sooner leave the wing care maintenance to their own devices, rather than subject themselves to the heavy handed torturous attentions of the butchers of Hell, who approached the task much as a sleep and sex deprived shift worker in a poultry processing plant, who took to the offending wing as though it were a chicken carcass in need of preparing for a Sunday roast.

Given the alternative, Crowley had, in short order, gotten to be very efficient at caring for his own wings. He did possess an innate knack so far as attention to detail went most ordinarily (it did see him through the vast centuries on earth with very little contention or question) and he actually found the process in caring for his feathers to be rather a soothing one.

He spent an inordinate amount of time tending to them; about once a week, in fact. And the effort showed, for there never was a finer set of such black, glossy and dandruff free wings to be found in all the preternatural corners of all the supernatural world.

Angels, on the other hand, were a precocious bunch, preferring to leave such matters to their 'experts'. Outsourcing these things, so far as Crowley was concerned, was little different to a human being popping down to the pedicurist and paying them to clip your own toenails. The angels had effectively deskilled themselves by refusing to learn what ought to have been second nature. And Aziraphale, much as his human body might have otherwise suggested, was no better.

As an earth based agent he had approached most everything such as he might have done so in Heaven. There were go to services on earth that would attend to such things, after all. A barber to trim his hair and sideburns and give his face a shave. A manicurist to file and style his cuticles. A dry cleaner to care for the clothes that he himself had actually _purchased_ over one-hundred and seventy years ago. Aziraphale truly believed that services were there to be utilized and did not actively buy into the self-sufficiency mind set that Crowley had long ago adopted, most simply as a means of 1.) Proving he could take care of shit himself and 2.) Not wanting to have all of his feathers ripped out one by agonizing one.

And, because Aziraphale most readily ascribed to the '_only experts should do the expert work_' mentality, he always left his wing care maintenance up to the Heaven based Wing Clinic. This would have all been well and fine, if Aziraphale had been required to report back into Heaven on a far more regular basis than perhaps the... once or twice, two by monthly he had been known to do in times past. An intangible pocketed magical cavity between the shoulder blades was hardly a sterile environment; especially when left unaired for the better part of a few months. All sorts of bacteria could fester away, quite happily in that dank little nook; meeting, falling in love and having trillions of tiny baby bacteria that they would send off to school, where they too might meet and fall in love and then the cycle would disgustingly continue.

It would stand that once every other month or so, Aziraphale might be in possession of a set of wings so meticulously groomed, so incandescently white and splendid, that Crowley could do little more than simply sit and stare in wonder; having only a vague memory of what such a glorious set of wings was like. He of course fairly much bullied Aziraphale into modelling them every time he had returned from Heaven, because the sight was quite astonishing and even more so when one takes into consideration what the angel's wings had deteriorated to right before he was due to return to Heaven.

More often than not, Aziraphale's wings possessed all the charm, veracity and gossamer sumptuousness that might otherwise be seen on the wings of an aged fantail pigeon, long dead and half interred in the dirty puddle in which it had drowned. A dirty puddle that someone had ridden a push bike through. A pushbike with a dirty wheel.

It made Crowley literally shudder all the way down to the tips of his snakeskin clothed toes, simply to imagine what living with those filth festooned wings ensconced within your shoulder cavities must be like. Aziraphale however hardly seemed to mind, or even be _aware_ of his wings requiring anything other than the most minimal attention and simply got about, much as he always had, with a spring in his step and a smile on his face, which baffled the likes of Crowley who was intrinsically aware of even so much as one feather being bent out of place.

Which was perhaps why he had taken so much undisguised delight in having borne witness to the aforementioned _Nit Wing Incident_; which had occurred on a particularly warm summer's night in 1862. Being Aziraphale, the angel had of course tried his very best not to concern himself with the persistent and nascent itching which had suddenly lain claim to somewhere deep in his back. So deep in fact that that it was far beyond reach of his fingernails, even if they hadn't been so assiduously filed.

In a single mindedness so tenacious it would be an understatement to call it pig-headed, he had simply tolerated the near intolerable sensation for the better part of five weeks. At which point he was discovered, by none other than Crowley himself, backed up onto a support beam in his bookshop and thrashing about like a belligerent bear in a state quite as close to madness as the angel had ever been.

It marked the very first, in what had become a semi-sort of regular occurrence; of Crowley providing some much needed grooming assistance to Aziraphale. (Quite frankly he did it just as much for his own good as for that of the moronic angel's.) On that particular occasion, Aziraphale was in such a desperate state that he hadn't even protested, all but throwing himself face first and sobbing onto the floor and allowing the demon to strip him of his upper garments before applying pressure to the small of his back (hard enough to stimulate the wings into automatically unfurling) and setting to work on delousing the poor parasite riddled bastard.

Given the state of his neglected wings, it had taken Crowley over three hours total to bring them back up to something resembling an acceptable standard; having seized the opportunity to toss a few bucketful's of warm soapy water over Aziraphale (something the angel had not been expecting and was not in the least pleased about) and scrubbing the accumulative oil, dried skin and every other manner of gross infestation from the limp, grey feathers. They'd had a fight, the two of them, only some weeks earlier and Aziraphale thought it very kind of Crowley not to make mention of it, given that he'd had over three hours to slip a word in edgewise.

Crowley had not, of course, because he chose his battles wisely. And because, more importantly, he hated the feeling of being at odds with the only true friend he had. He'd still laughed at him, because that is quite simply what good friends do when one of them is splayed out wet and bedraggled upon the floor, in a puddle of fermented wing juice.

So, in response to Aziraphale's protestations, Crowley smiled, because he, unlike Aziraphale had borne witness to the angels near total collapse into slathering insanity and wasn't likely to ever forget about it.

"Yet another time I came to your unabetted rescue, angel." He teased, holding out his snifter for the steward to refill and giving another wince as pain went through him. Aziraphale, ever so finitely aware of Crowley's expressions and knowing this one to be for the most part unfamiliar, set his own glass down in a genuine show of concern.

"Ill-tempered snarking aside, are you quite sure you're all right? I thought you were looking a bit peaky all evening. ...Well, peakier than usual."

He ignored the unimpressed sneer Crowley shot his way and focused instead on his face. At the tiny droplets of sweat hanging suspended below his hairline. He reached out, not of course concerning himself with the trivialities of informed consent and placed the backs of his fingers to Crowley's forehead.

"You're clammy. And you have a temperature." He used both hands now to lift the demon's angular chin just enough to feel up under his jaw. "Your glands are up." He glanced briefly about before lifting the lenses of Crowley's glasses and taking a good hard look at his eyes. There were hooded bags beneath them, the skin having turned a fetching grey and the otherwise startling bright yellow of the irises now possessed the same sickly countenance of a sick infants excrement.

Aziraphale returned to his seat with a terse, reproachful frown. "You've probably got an infection. And here you've been sitting about all evening not saying anything. You're clearly unwell!"

"I'm fine, don't fuss." Crowley pointlessly advised. For if there was one of several things for which Aziraphale was most notably known to do well, it was to fuss. To the exception of perhaps only his wings.

"I just don't understand. If this is something to do with your wings, then why haven't you attended to it yourself?"

"It's in an awkward spot." Crowley said, reaching first one hand over his shoulder and then up underneath it and patting with his fingers to indicate the elusive _spot_. "Tried getting a look at it in the mirror, but it's on the back and up under the bone somewhere."

"How long has it been bothering you?"

Now Crowley was quite appropriately about to receive a taste of his own, bitter medicine. He might have blushed, if he had been the blushing type. "Couple of weeks now."

_"Crowley!"_ Aziraphale did actually spill some of his cognac, so perfectly irritated as he was with the hypocrisy of the demon.

"I figured it would pass on its own! Not like I can get it checked out at the clinic downstairs anymore. Don't think they'd accept a walk in from a traitor."

Aziraphale softened at this, for he too was much in the same boat. Following the _Armag-Don't even bother_, they had both been dishonourably discharged from their respective realms, on account of treasonous behaviour and directly impeding on would-be '_Great Plan's'_.

Crowley, in fact, received the added bonus of a secondary summation relating to, though not limited by _'wilful murder in the First degree, behaviour considered to be in direct alignment with intentional acts of gleeful underhandedry, believing himself to be in possession of wits vastly superior to that of most any other citizen of Hell, of which evidence and or proof of which was entirely absent _(a point which Crowley might well have argued if it had been him rather than Aziraphale posing as him receiving the summation)_ and being, in general, a persistent and unapologetic lying, scheming, leather pants wearing, insufferable, putrescent twat-faced smarmy little wank-train.'_ (This had been largely Hastur's contribution to the proceedings but it seemed to make him feel slightly the better for having got it off of his chest.)

In so saying, it was not as though either of them were in any position to make use of the clinical applications of their respective realms anymore. They had perhaps been fortunate that neither of them had been in need of such services in all the months since the passing of the Not-quite end of the world. Aziraphale took up his snifter, knowing full well that he had a favour of which was quite overdue for repaying and supped back the last of the delicious nectar within.

"Well then,_ I_ will take a look for you. Likely it will be an easy fix. Ingrown quill or something."

"Oh, you don't have to do that..." Crowley drawled, attempting, even as he just about melted into a sickly, sweaty pile of awfulness into his seat, to sound cool about the whole thing. Aziraphale, wondering why they even bothered to continue to play these stupid titillation games with one another still, raised a hand to beckon the steward over with the bill. He was tempted to ask for a container in which to pour his dinner companion, but thought the joke might very well go over the young mans head.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N: **Feel free to leave a review if you so desire. It is very much the lovely tobacco that I use to stuff my writing pipe and keeps me puffing happily away from chapter to chapter. As fanfiction is not the sort of thing what is generally funded on, we take what tiny victories we can :)

As always and with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Good Omens, nor any of its characters, nor anything of any real relevant and substantial importance. ... Except for a car and a house that I currently share with the bank. The bank lets me keep my clothes, shoes, dog and husband here, which is enormously kind of it, really.

**A/N: **Time for another random Good Omen's Factoid! Did anyone else notice, in the scene where Aziraphale and Crowley are sitting together in the café in Episode 2 and Aziraphale is jizzing his slacks over a piece of cake, that the lighting is noticeably brighter on the left hand side of the screen (where Aziraphale sits) and darker on the right hand side (where Crowley sits)? A nice little detail. Props to the stage design people :)

Thanks as always to all of you who are reading and following. Always so very the much appreciated :)

All right, enough blabbing: Here is the continuation on from the last chapter. Hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

_**~Saturday, February 2nd - 2019~** _

_**A.Z Fell & Co, London Soho...**_

Crowley somehow managed to drive the two of them back to Aziraphale's bookshop. An impressive feat, considering he had dissolved into something which possessed little more than the construct and density of treacle. Once there however, Aziraphale had to fairly much extract him from the drivers seat and steer his ever more somnolent body in through the front door. The door of which he customarily locked, bolted and drew the blinds down upon. All the more necessary, given what was about to occur.

"Here." Aziraphale said, halting Crowley's forward trajectory by grabbing hold of the collar of his jacket. He pulled him back and then further assisted him by taking off the coat and hanging it. He snapped a finger in the vague direction of the lounge settee. "Now. Shirt off."

"Suppose you _did_ buy me dinner." Crowley cracked, giving a dreary sort of grin as his fingers splayed haphazardly across the front of his shirt, slipping buttons from buttonholes whence landing upon them. It was a bit hit and miss, but he eventually succeeded and managed to drag his shirt back off of his arms and dump it onto the floor. Aziraphale snapped his finger once more, because Crowley had, now stripped down to his singlet, started to vaguely wander off to God... _someone_ only knows where.

"Sit."

"I'm just gonna grab a drink first." The demon protested, reefing open one half of the liquor cabinet and near about shearing the door clean from its hinges. Most likely for want of having hung all his weight off of it whilst it swung outwards. "Ya want anything?"

"No, thankyou. I would prefer to keep my wits about me." Aziraphale crossed into his back room, reaching underneath to extract the oft unused first aid kit, whose main purpose in life, it seemed, was to bump against his toes whilst he was working on the computer. He brought it out into the study nook, finding Crowley waiting patiently with a glass of Pinot Grigio in hand and looking about in obvious confusion as to where he was supposed to have conducted his sitting.

"Here." Aziraphale stated, placing the First Aid kit on the settee and then pulling up a plump, bean filled pouffe to perch before it. He flicked a finger at it and Crowley, plainly exhausted and having had quite enough of keeping it together, stumped over, swivelled on his heel and dropped down to not so much perch on the pouffe, but to splay, long limbered and ungainly upon it.

Aziraphale flicked open the twin clasps that kept the lid of the First Aid kit secure. Once he had set up the internal levels to his satisfaction, he lent his hand to the centre of Crowley's upper back. The singlet was warm and a little damp and rather than invoke disgust in him, Aziraphale was struck by an intense sensation of both love and pity. The poor creature was obviously ill and a genuine victim of his own inert nature to defy most anything that might in some way seemingly subjugate him.

"Unfurl your wings." Aziraphale requested, petting a hand gently to the slender indent of Crowley's back. He did not apply pressure, for he did not wish to force the act in any way. Crowley responded, his wings slowly fading into being, curling out from within themselves such as a spool of wool unbinds from about its central core. He kept the right one tucked in about himself, the larger feathers near the end, cupping about the floor by his booted feet. The left, he stretched out. As much as was possible in the somewhat craped study nook.

"Up there somewhere. Kind of off of where the bone meets the shoulder." Crowley gestured vaguely with the dangerously full wine glass, before bringing it back to his lips and sloshing in a generous mouthful.

It did not take long for Aziraphale to locate the source of the discomfort. After pulling back a couple of the longer feathers from the wing bone itself, he encountered just beneath, a tumescent, painful looking lump; roughly the size and shape of a tennis ball that had been cut in half. The membrane surrounding it looked painfully stretched and Aziraphale took note that there were no feathers growing in immediate conjunction to the growth.

"Ah. Here we are." Aziraphale had taken from the First Aid kit, a sterilized scalpel. He slipped on a pair of rubber gloves before poking the tip of the scalpel lightly against the bulge. "Got quite a nice old lump just underneath the wing bone here. I suspect that when you _unnecessarily_ plucked one of your old feathers, you might have done so a bit too soon. I think you may have a number of feathers that have attempted to grow right on back through the one pore just here and they've gotten caught up."

"Is it really disgusting and full of pus?" Crowley asked, sounding a little too intrigued for his own good. Aziraphale, against his better sense, reached over, took the wine glass from Crowley and stole a sip for himself.

"Let's just say that if it were on _my_ wing, you would be delighted." A statement quite unashamedly true. Crowley was one of those rare and wonderful people who seemed to enjoy such pursuits as popping pimples, picking scabs and ever much the same disgusting delights. He had even admitted to watching Doctor Pimple Popper on YouTube and being positively enthralled by one particular episode in which an enormous cyst had been filmed from such a close angle, you might have thought the camera to cop a back-spray. "I, for one, am _not_ delighted. Oh it looks like it's going to be an absolute gushy _nightmare_."

"You're a fine one to talk about disgusting. Back in 5 BCE, I bet you _opened_ your wings one morning and the ten plagues of Egypt popped out. Frogs and flies and death of the First Born son and all that, all just curdled up in your noxious old wing cavity."

Aziraphale actually chuckled at this one, finding it difficult, as it most usually was, to not be charmed by Crowley's sense of humour. "We both know full well who was responsible for _that, _my dear. And you really ought not antagonize an angel who has a scalpel in their hand. Lest it slip and lop your head clean off."

"Hell of a scalpel it can take a head as big as mine clear off in one go."

"Yes, but you do have a rather flimsy, pencil thin neck." He smiled as Crowley turned and glared at him over his shoulder. "All right, yes, I've had my fun. Face forward now please. I'm going to need to drain the awful thing before I can get in there and remove the feathers. I'm afraid you're going to feel a sharp pain but I'll try to be as quick as I can. Be brave."

Crowley hissed, drawing his lips back sharply from his teeth as he felt the sting of scalpel slice through the painfully strained skin of his wing membrane. He fisted the fabric of the pouffe on which he was perched, feeling the interred beans splinter beneath his demonic grasp.

"_Be brave_, dear."

"I _am_ being brave!" Crowley snapped, not at all being brave. Tears had formed a translucent film across his eyes and he had to reach up quickly to dab at the corners with the back of his hand. "You try sitting here with a big infected wing and see how brave _you_ are!"

The inflammation was so severe that it took little more than Aziraphale just nicking into it with the scalpel before the infected build up started seeping out. It was a very strange thing to think and to feel, but Aziraphale quite understood in that moment, just what bizarre satisfaction Crowley might have gotten out of doing and watching such things. As the pressure alleviated from the awful lump, Crowley's whole body slumped and he emitted a deep, resonating groan of relief. It occurred to Aziraphale that regardless of how disgusting the situation was, that it was fixing something. Fixing something which had been making Crowley feel awful and ill. The vile mixtures of putrid colour oozing from the incision he made, said all too clearly that this dreadful poison had been holding court inside of Crowley's earthly body and Aziraphale was overcome with a strong, overwhelming need to expunge it. So that Crowley could feel well again.

"Oh... _fuck_ that feels so much better already..." Crowley all but moaned, hunkered in over his raised knee, the wine glass hanging suspended from his limp fingers. He lifted his head long enough to pull his glasses from his face. Take another sip of wine. Aziraphale held a good wad of toilet paper up to Crowley's back; sopped up some more of the mess as it oozed out.

"It's like every colour of the rainbow in here. I've got red and yellow and green... and... oh, is that _black_?!" He sighed, more annoyed with the demon by the moment and pressed the paper harder into the base of the lump, to push more of the awful fluid to the surface. "It's coming out in hard lumps! You've left it so long it's started turning to _solids_! Stupid _stubborn_ demon! You knew full well that I owed you from that time with the nits and you still didn't go and say anything!"

"I'm sorry..." Crowley murmured, far too contented now to argue with the angel over... well, much of anything really. Aziraphale sighed, placed the used paper aside and tore another good wad from the roll.

"Never the mind now. But next time please say something! Before it gets to this stage!"

It took close to five minutes for Aziraphale to successfully drain the cyst, so that only small driblets of blood were now appearing. A rather impressive pile of grisly tissues had built up on the couch cushion beside him. Aziraphale pushed once more at the incision point, wiped away the blood and then placed the paper and the scalpel aside. He took then from the First Aid kit a sealed container, twisted the cap off and set it down within easy reach.

"There we are. Now, I'm just going to use the tweezers to excise the feathers." He picked up the tweezers, using his gloved fingers to move the still swollen flesh about. He could already see the black of the feathers which had been attempting to grow and all but curled in around themselves within the wound. He reached in, expecting Crowley might hiss or otherwise voice some manner of complaint and he was surprised to instead find him not reacting in the least. He just sat there, compliant, hunkered over his knees with his head down and his drink all but forgotten. It must have been painful but not nearly as much so as it had apparently been.

Aziraphale excised the first of the feathers. It was heavily saturated by blood and other fluids and the quill had snapped off from where another feather had likely grown up and pushed it out of place. He placed it neatly down into the container, returned the tweezers to the wound and continued extracting feather after feather after feather. There were seven in total, all bundled in around each other such as to form a veritable plug inside of the pore. Once they had been removed, Aziraphale used the point of the tweezers to dig a little deeper. They caught against something, scratched.

"As I thought. As the quills have snapped off, they've remained embedded in the pore." Aziraphale took up the scalpel again. "I'm going to need to open the incision a little wider; so I can reach in and remove the base of the quills."

"You do what you gotta do." Crowley said, voice muffled from where his face was buried against his knee. Aziraphale took up the scalpel, used it to extend the wound a little and gently widened the incision so that he could see into the base of the pore. The quills had all gathered there, crammed in like pins jammed into the same portion of a pin cushion. Aziraphale used the tweezers to work them out, one at a time.

Crowley enjoyed this part. It was a sweet pain, this one. A tender ache. He hadn't known just how bad it was until Aziraphale had started fixing it but now, he could quite literally feel the easement of each of the sharp quills as they were removed. As though something had been pulled tight inside of him, much the way your brow feels whence you relax it after frowning.

The feeling was linked, quite intrinsically to one of... pleasure. Pleasure he was quite certain Aziraphale would take offense at, if he had known. So he kept quiet. Displaced those soft little moans into his knees where needed and swallowed down yet more of his wine. Clenched his fists on occasion. Wishing vaguely that there could be something _more _to it.

At long last, Aziraphale extracted the final splinter and placed it, alongside its other villainous companions into the container. Crowley wanted to look at them (_morbidly as curious as always_) and so he passed it over and the demon stared, mildly impressed at just some of the mess that had caused him so much grief.

"Ouch."

"You are not wrong." Aziraphale confirmed, squirting saline solution into the wound and sterilizing it as much as possible. It was small enough so as to not require stitches and he placed gauze and a sticking plaster over the incision site; as a precaution against further weeping. "Lucky we got to it when we did. Any longer and you might have very well lost the wing."

Crowley gave a humorous snort, passing the container back over his shoulder. "Yeah. A one-winged demon. How stupid would that be?"

He felt so very much better and so very warm and appreciative towards Aziraphale for it. He leaned back on the pouffe, resting his head against the angels knees and stared up at him with a softness of expression that Aziraphale wasn't quite accustomed to.

"Thankyou. You're an angel."

"Well, a_ once-angel_, anyway." Aziraphale chuckled, petting his palm to the side of Crowley's face before climbing to his feet and scooping up all of the dirtied tissues. Crowley just about fell off of the pouffe, having dispensed so much of his weight against Aziraphale's legs and feeling rather settled about the decision to do so. "But you're welcome. Try and not let it get so bad next time, yes? Goodness knows I owe you enough for all the mending you've been required to do on my wings over the years."

"Speaking of which..." Crowley sat up eagerly on the pouffe, eyelids distending so as to form an expression most readily akin to an addict who had just realized they were due their next fix. Aziraphale, knowing full well just what it was the demon was to be dribbling after, dumped the tissues into the bin and raised both still gloved hands up in protest.

"No. Absolutely _not_. It's unnecessary."

Crowley continued to stare at him. Eyes wide, unblinking. Head cocked slightly to the side. Lower lip jutting out to form an ever so subtle plump hillock in the rosy flesh. Aziraphale felt, much as he had always done, the grip of his fingers loosening from the reigns which might otherwise have held tight his self-control.

Not two minutes later it was_ he_ perched uncomfortably upon the pouffe, stripped to his undershirt and staring tiredly off into the middle distance as Crowley, cross legged on the settee behind him, pawed euphorically through his own tousled plumage.

"I swear," the angel said, wondering even as he did just how it had gotten to this stage. "It may not be that human beings actually descended from the apes, but I would hardly be surprised if_ you_ did. You look just like a little capuchin monkey. You'll probably eat any fleas that you find."

Crowley chuckled, working his way through the longer feathers at the highest rise of Aziraphale's wing. "Got flea's, have you?"

"Not so far as I know, no. Certainly won't, after you've finished up back there."

Crowley was quiet a moment, reaching down and pushing his hands up slowly through the feathers so as to distinctly separate them from one another. He lifted near just about every one, checked underneath them and took to plucking at those that, in his opinion, needed to be removed. Scratched and pinched at spots he located on the membrane. Tutting every once in a while.

"You need to wash them more, angel. And haven't I told you to moisturize?" He reached down, scratching at the section of the wing known as the marginal covert. This was the thicker part of the wing which extended directly from beneath the shoulder cavity and contained a wider expanse of membrane than the other sections. Aziraphale had to confess, that it did feel awful itchy. Though he had only noticed it when Crowley had started scratching. "This bit here gets so dry, you _need_ to soak your wings more!" He tapped the back of the angels' head, causing him to open his eyes and realize, startlingly, that he'd actually had his eyes shut in the first place. "Come to my place tomorrow. You can use my bath. Give 'em a proper clean."

Much like a little bird bathing itself in a puddle, demons and angels were certainly encouraged to wash their wings in much the same manner. To wit, Crowley had arranged for the installation of a rather impressed bathtub in his luxury flat. Though not so much a bath, as a rather wide, rather deep, most definitely heated pool; in which he could submerge most of both himself and his wings and give the whole lot a proper going over. Aziraphale had partaken a few times (always on Crowley's insistence) and he had to admit it was much preferable to years past, when their only other option had been to go down to St James's river of a night time and dunk themselves in the freezing water. Fighting off ducks all the while, who appeared strangely aroused by the whole spectacle.

"Oh. No. I wouldn't want to be a bother." Aziraphale replied, not even entirely sure as to why he was declining the offer. It had hardly been a clandestine affair in the past, after all. Crowley had often sat in the bathroom and kept him company as he washed; perched on the sink and sucking back from whatever libation he'd lain his hands to at the time. It was a wonder as such, to Aziraphale, as to why the prospect suddenly made him feel so nervous.

Crowley glanced his palm right on back to Aziraphale's flock of white hair. "Since when do you care about being a bother? Come on, don't be stupid." He paused long enough to take a sip from his wine before returning his nimble fingers to the covets of the angels wings. "You'll pop round tomorrow. I'll set it all up."

"Fine. But no bubble bath this time."

"I'll just light some candles, dim the lights and put some Barry White on, angel. Toss a big old handful of rose petals in the water." Crowley murmured in hush tones. He laughed, though it hardly assuaged Aziraphale, who still couldn't quite put a finger as to why he felt on edge. He was rather glad when Crowley changed the subject. "Funny thing, though. Just the other day I was walking across the road from the bottle shop and this car comes barrelling along at me. So I... put my hand up. To stop it, you know. And the blessed thing nearly runs me over."

"Well I think it rather serves you right for crossing against the guard." Aziraphale stated, reaching his hand back and gesturing for Crowley to pass him his glass. He took a sip of wine before continuing, "Obviously your magic didn't have the intended affect?"

"Didn't even slow down. Not even a jot. Just about clipped the edges clean off of my shoes." He picked up the tweezers and plucked out yet another feather Aziraphale wasn't altogether certain required shedding. He watched it flutter through the air in front of his face before settling on the floor.

"Were you concentrating?"

"That's the thing. Never had to go to any effort before. Dead simple that spell. Takes more effort to pass a thought."

"It's strange..." Aziraphale mused, his brow forming lines so deeply interred you could tell with one glance that he was most definitely a heavy reader. Something had just come to him; something potentially worrisome. "Just the other day I was needing to place a book back on one of the higher shelves in one of my bookcases. I was... well, I rather didn't feel that the effort required to bring out the ladder was entirely necessary, so I used a spell to elevate the book into the correct position." He glanced over his shoulder at Crowley, his expression poised in that ever so lovely state betwixt embarrassment and knowing you ought really have known better then to have attempted something. "It landed on my head."

"Oh." Crowley responded, quite the more seriously than Aziraphale had expected him to take it. He thought the demon would laugh, which was why he hadn't mentioned anything about it as of yet. "That's a pretty simple spell too, isnt it?"

"Well, it's not quite in the same ballpark as grinding the brakes of a locomotive so that it doesn't render you a mess of broken bones on the road but yes. One I use regularly." He paused, meaning to be quite as clear with his inferred meaning as was possible when one was only inferring something. "No effort required. For the most part."

"Think it means anything?"

Aziraphale didn't much like the way that Crowley said this; as though he already knew the answer to the question which he had asked, but wanted to sniff out just how much Aziraphale might have known before announcing it. "I'm not sure. What do you suppose it might mean? From your tone I would assume you've already compiled some thoughts of your own."

"Not thoughts so much as... concerns." Crowley murmured softly, pushing aside some of the thicker clumps of plumage towards the central part of Aziraphale's wing and working the tweezers in there. Aziraphale flinched as another feather was unceremoniously plucked free; one he wasn't so certain had really required extraction at all. "My main one being... what if it... the uh, the fuck ups with the magic... what if it's because we've been... discharged?"

"Discharged?"

"Severed from our realms, I mean. What if our magic is getting weaker because Heaven and Hell have cut us off?"

It had already occurred to Aziraphale that there was likely to be some manner of fallout following their expulsion from their respective realms. But after more than six thousand years of living primarily on earth, he imagined that if their magic might be so easily afflicted by disassociation from their home lands they would have seen it by now. Crowley might in turn have noticed a significant impact on his powers when he had Fallen; from all reports most demon's magic, though warped, lacked nothing of the strength they might otherwise have wielded before.

"Oh I hardly think that's likely." Aziraphale replied, having already considered the aforementioned. Crowley, unconvinced, picked at something on the membrane stretched across the angels wing bone. He likely wasn't doing any more good back there, but he would continue to amuse himself with the picking and plucking for some time following.

"But it_ could_ be a possibility."

"Well yes it could be." Aziraphale turned slightly, dropping his right wing down dramatically so that it draped over his legs. This allowed him to make eye contact with Crowley, which he thought a very important thing, given the slight bur of anxiety that had hitched itself to the demon's tone. He may have liked to questions things, certainly, but to profess genuine grievance of the matter... It must truly have been troubling him. "But Crowley... you must know that our powers, our abilities are linked so finitely with our immortal spirits that they simply cannot be unbound and desiccated. They're not checked out like our human bodies. Our powers are... well, they're part of our makeup. It's right there in the..." He twirled his hands, one about the other as though kneading dough in the middle of the air. "-stuff that makes us _us_! I can't imagine how it would be possible for our powers to ever just... run out."

"I'm not talking about running out so much as their just getting _weaker_, Aziraphale." Crowley said with a slight frown. The frown and the fact that he was using Aziraphale's name, meant that he was serious. "Living on earth is a right laugh and a half, but I don't know how much fun I'll be having if my spells over... well, let's say at HSBC Holdings wear off and my savings account suddenly plummets to zero." He indicated a direct downward drop with the tweezers, making a popping sound at the end to light heartedly emulate a crash. "I'll be up shit creek without a paddle then. Lose the flat, most likely. No money. Nothing."

"Nonsense." Aziraphale glanced off to the side, wondering how he might best phrase himself next so as to not embarrass a rather easily embarrassed demon. Feeling a flush warm his own cheeks; for he felt there was something suggestive in what he was about to say. It was entirely heartfelt. And this was what worried him most of all. "You would... stay with me, of course. I'd never let you live out on the streets with all the ne'er-do-well's and... the loose women. I would take care of you."

And he smiled that ever so celestial smile, nose scrunching just as cutely as it ever did and with eyes that couldn't seem to help but dart to and from Crowley, as though he simply couldn't help himself. Now, if Crowley had been quite a bit more trusting than he was and perhaps a little more switched on, he would have taken this for precisely what it was; a door being edged ever so infinitesimally opened. A dead bolt being slid back.

But he was no fool, was Crowley. They had been playing this game a long time, the two of them and the end result was always the same. The door being slammed smartly shut in his face whenever he tried to get a foot in over the stoop. It got a little exhausting getting your hopes up after a while and so on this occasion, he didn't bother with it. Even when in the presence of that natural radiant warmth and goodness which seemed to eb and flow from Aziraphale quite as naturally as a flowers perfume.

"I'm not much for the idea of being a kept demon, angel." He said instead, which was quite true and also an effective means of permitting the angel to rescind on an offer that he would only come to regret in five minutes anyway. Which was why Crowley was surprised to have Aziraphale meet his eye, and to continue to push the point. He might have said it in a light hearted manner, but Crowley knew he would usually have backed off by now.

"You could help around the shop. Earn your keep."

Crowley couldn't help but blow a raspberry at this one. "Me, working in a bookshop? _Please_. Business would be out from underneath you in about three seconds flat. Besides, how would the both of us survive on just a bookkeepers wage?" He held aloft his dwindling glass of wine, swirling the golden contents about in the base. "All those little luxuries we've come to enjoy would no longer be available. No more dining at the Ritz. No more expensive thirty year old single malt. Might as well kiss anything with the word 'vintage' in it goodbye."

"You forget; I have _earned_ every pound I have, Crowley. None of my savings are compiled from magical underhanded dealings. I have a tidy amount saved up." Aziraphale smiled reassuringly, patting his palm to Crowley's knee and giving it a squeeze that sent warmth fluttering up through the base of the demon's belly. "We would be fine."

"_You_ would be fine, sweetheart." Crowley said, firmly enunciating so that there would be no arguing with him on the point. Making it clear in no uncertain terms as to where he stood in respect of this 'plan'. "I'm not about to sponge off of you."

_I couldn't do that to you. Not take your money when you've rightfully earned it. When you've worked hard to earn it. It'll be my own fault if our powers run out and I'm penniless. I won't make you pay for my arrogance and negligence. _

"Well, what else are you going to do? Just slink on out into the gutter and die?" And Aziraphale did something he couldn't remember ever having done before; not at least in the spirit of which it was intended. He took up Crowley's hand and squeezed it firm between his own. To him, it was a strange thing, for angels never usually required the aid of a physical connection when expressing their love. You probably weren't doing your job very well if you had to.

It was simply that... well, he had felt in that moment such an overwhelming sense of love and affection for Crowley, that he wasn't able to sequester it to his gaze and his voice alone. Perhaps it was a very human thing, he wasn't sure. But Crowley wasn't pulling away either and that had to be a_ good_ thing.

"Crowley..." He said, caressing his thumb over the ridges of the demon's knuckles. Noting the way that the yellow eyes, much brighter than they had been earlier, observed their trajectory. "My dear, where is all this even coming from? You had a near miss, that doesn't mean that our magic is going to disappear and leave us high and dry. And even if it did, don't you think that I would want to help you get back... well, get _onto_ your feet?" They chuckled lightly at this one. Distracted. They'd shaken hands before yes, but this... this was something quite different. They were poised as though in the grip of a spell. Finitely aware of the other. "I wouldn't let anything happen to you. No matter how proud you pretend to be."

_It's not pride, angel. Guilt. Guilt and arrogance. For letting myself believe that the magic would always be there. That I would always have the luxury of doing whatever the Heaven it is that I wanted._

_I never wanted to have to make you pay for that. And I'll be blessed if I'll ever just let that be okay._

"I'm just saying that we _need_ to be careful. Maybe start cutting back on some of the more frivolouss miracles. Definitely avoid throwing too much energy into anything so much as resembling a_ true miracle_. Don't want to run the risk of being stranded in human bodies... no powers no..." He gave an offhanded sort of twitch of the lips, distracted. "Well... lots of things to consider. Isn't there?"

Aziraphale thought on this some, not quite clear as to what it meant, as Crowley placed the tweezers down, freeing his right hand. He started to very slowly caress the back of Aziraphale's wrist, trace the vein lines in the backs of his hands. Up over his knuckles and onto his nails. Being as simply curious as Crowley had always been. Aziraphale however, felt his body respond to this quite outside of what his mind had logically determined it to be. Very much in line with the not oft experienced Urges, which gripped him once every so often.

This felt more insistent however. It took a hold of his lungs and clenched, so as to stutter the breath that he had been taking in. Sent a flush into his neck and cheeks. Traversed a path down through his loins.

_Of course_.

What Crowley had meant was that if they were to lose their powers and were forced to live as humans, that they would invariable need to choose a gender by which to exist. Certainly there were any number of differing variations and interpretations to which humans viewed gender and sex in these modern times, but if they themselves did not wish to be singled out, they would need to ascribe something physical in the least.

It was not a matter of overly great concern so far as Aziraphale went. He himself had lived with male genitalia for many thousands of years now. Ever since he had made the decision to start imbibing human food, it just made sense to go 'all the way' and allow his body to do, unconsciously, what any other human body would do. It took less thinking on his part. Of course, he could return alcohol to the bottle when he needed to sober up, but this was not the case of all liquids and certainly not of solids. He might have looked a poor customer indeed if he were to order some delicious meal, be seen to be eating it and then magically 'regurgitate' it back onto the plate. He presented as a male in all other regards, so why bother with simply manifesting the appropriately assigned sex organs if and where there might be a chance of it being exposed?

It had in fact been his time in Rome which had cemented his decision to do so. He had grown tired of the constant '_swapping in and swapping out_'; having to keep on top of just what was going on '_down below_'. Not to mention the up-skirting. Because he was so very blonde and clean and otherwise healthy in appearance, he'd been the unfortunate recipient of many male advances at the time. Not unusual, in and of itself. It was Rome after all. But Aziraphale really rather preferred not to run the risk of being exposed (in every sense of the word) and had made the decision to live entirely as a human male from that point on.

Crowley, on the other hand, was a little different. He had _not_ spent the last six thousand years on earth living exclusively as a male. There had been times he had in fact, presented as female. Aziraphale never thought him very convincing when he had but Crowley had rather sort of chastised him for the appraisal, stating that the state of the body did not accurately reflect the form of the spirit.

He had certainly struggled with this state of earth based identity for far longer than Aziraphale had and though he had started leaning predominantly into presenting exclusively as a male in the 1600's, he still never invested entirely in the affixing of male genitalia. At least, not consistently, as Aziraphale had. He did not eat as much as Aziraphale did, for one and when he drank, he might have then switched in whatever was required to rid his body of the urine but Aziraphale felt he rather treated this as a slot machine. He'd just go with whatever. Otherwise, he remained for the most part, genderless. The times that he did switch in male sex organs, he was constantly chasing after Aziraphale for advice on the matter. Never seeming entirely comfortable with them. And yet refusing all the while to wear looser pants.

If Crowley were to lose his powers, than he would be required to make that choice once and for all. And Aziraphale wasn't quite sure that Crowley would ever truly be at peace with whatever form he chose. He liked to shed his skin. Frequently. The thought of being trapped and of not being able to shift in one way or the other would likely have been overwhelming to a creature whose very nature had been changing since the dawn of human time.

Aziraphale connected the dots, only of virtue of the fact that his own long since ascribed genitalia, seemed to be taking notice of what was going on between his and Crowley's hands. Now this did strike him as odd, for the movements so far as he could tell were very tender. Why then was there this element of arousal?

One of the many nuisances of male sex organs. They were incredibly poor at discriminating. He could quite understand why Crowley would prefer not to be at the mercy of them.

"If worse comes to worse... and you do have to... choose..." Aziraphale swallowed a little, his throat feeling dry. He wished now that he had stopped long enough to grab himself a drink. He might have gone to get one now but he rather felt it better that he remain present for Crowley; who was concerned and vulnerable and likely very confused. "Choose whatever makes you most comfortable. The form in which you will be most happy."

"I'll be fine." Crowley murmured, giving that careless, crooked little smile of which Aziraphale found so strangely endearing. "Don't you worry about me, angel. So long as you're around, I can cope with anything this world or the next throws at me."

Aziraphale thought this quite the sweetest thing and didn't at all know what to say. He was so flustered that he took to stammering, staring off to the side. He felt Crowley lift his hand, turn it and place the knuckles against his lips. He planted a firm kiss against them, unceremoniously, with great intent. Quick, sharp and to the point. Released him then and gestured with his fingers to face front again.

Without comment Aziraphale turned, bringing his hands back into his lap and allowing Crowley to start fiddling about with his wings again. They sat as such for some time. Without awkwardness. Simply contented. The movements of Crowley's hands had taken on something of a mediative quality and Aziraphale felt very soothed by it. He might have nodded off right then and there but then Crowley spoke again and ruined any chance of that.

"Hey... what do you think about you and me going on a trip together?

"A trip?" Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder, his voice teasing. "Not off to Alpha Centauri, surely?"

"_No_, of course not! Just round the world, visit some of the old haunts. See how things have changed. How they_ haven't_ changed." Crowley paused, murmuring as he sucked back the last remaining mouthful of wine from his glass. He set it back on the side table with a somewhat heavy and careless 'thunk'. "You know. Just have fun. Reward ourselves a little for a job well done in averting the Would-be-end-of-all-things. Let the world reward_ us_, frankly."

Aziraphale was still poised in that very tentative stage where he dare not permit himself room in which to wonder as to why why he felt particular things where Crowley was concerned. _Why_ the suggestion of taking off together on a holiday, exclusively and entirely in the company of one another, made him feel apprehensive, for example.

There was an odd sensation in his chest; similar as to what he might ascribe to the body preparing itself to be attacked. He felt himself in a sort of danger, though what danger that might be he couldn't say. Only that to say yes, even if there was a part of him (a very large part, if he was being honest) that felt warm and tickled and all too eager to agree to the offer right then and there, he would be saying 'yes' to far much more than just a simple holiday. If he had been opening the door but a crack earlier than this... _this_ would be throwing the damned thing wide open. And was he truly ready for that?

"Well, I..." He smiled sweetly, differentially over his shoulder towards where Crowley sat just out of sight. The smile was as beautiful as it always was, but the corners trembled slightly in evidence of his internal struggle. He did not wish to smelt Crowley's obvious enthusiasm on the matter and wished instead to have some room in which to take a step back. "I'll... I'll think about it. I really well."

He thought Crowley might have been hurt by the subtle rebuff, (for it was hardly the first in what was in fact, a long line of Aziraphale saying 'no' to the demon) but if he was offended he didn't show it. Didn't show much of any sort of reaction, really.

"Take all the time you need. Got plenty of it, after all." He leaned over suddenly, put his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders and gave him a brief squeeze. Slapped his palm to the centre of the angel's chest before rolling sideways on the settee and up onto his feet. "Well, I'd best not be burning the midnight oil. Might be making tracks."

"You're leaving?" Aziraphale asked, a little disappointed to find that he was sooner to be without company than expected. It was hardly late after all. "Won't you stay for another drink, at least?"

Crowley, in the midst of slipping his shirt back on, gave Aziraphale a sad smile. The type which said he wished that he had known better than to ask.

"Look, angel... I know it's not getting late. But if I stay any longer, I'm worried I'll say something you're not ready to hear." He loped to the coatrack, looking to be in a much improved state than he had an hour or so earlier. Took down his coat and fed his arms through the sleeves. Jerked up the collar so that it would provide a windbreak to his neck. "So, be at mine tomorrow morning. Not too early. Might treat myself to a sleep in. I can do that now. Novelty, eh?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." Aziraphale said, curling in his own wings and tucking them back inside of the intangible nook beneath his shoulder blades. He had to admit, they did feel infinitely more comfortable than they had earlier. "Goodnight."

As expected, Crowley was already halfway out the door, waving a hand back over his shoulder and calling 'Night' just seconds before he disappeared out into the street. Aziraphale, pulling his shirt back on over his singlet, was left puzzled by what he said before leaving. But not as puzzled as he went to such great strains in pretending to be.

Heaven and Hell were no longer at their backs. The constraints which had been imposed upon them had been severed and they were now free to act on their own whims, to chart their own course. To do, for the very first time in all the time the earth had existed, as they themselves wished to do.

The world was opening its doors to them. The question remained, what might Aziraphale let in, if he were to open his own doors in return?

For with a storm behind them, such doors are never so easily closed.

**~X~**

That same night, not six square miles from the small ski village of Canazei, Italy, a meteorite struck the earth; carving a really rather decent trench into the snowy slope of the nearby mountain. The meteorite was approximately five feet in width and diameter and had been tracked by NASA now for some years prior to it entering earth's solar system. It was believed to have originated from a dead planet in the Triangulam galaxy; a vastly uncharted area of space of which little information had been gathered.

A group of astrophysicists set out to gather samples from the meteor. Three were subsequently killed in an avalanche, which in turn buried the meteorite in its entirety. One survived, unharmed. He passed back through the village of Canazei on his return. What followed was a never before seen and unprecedented event, in which the townsfolk turned on one another with such unmitigated hostility and violence, that it made world news. Of the two thousand plus persons who resided within the town, seventy were pronounced dead before the day was out.

There was nothing on the news pertaining to the deaths of the scientists sent out to gather samples of the meteorite.

There was in fact nothing in NASA's files at all pertaining to the existence of the meteorite.

As for the man who survived, well... there was no record of him either. Birth records that might have once existed simply ceased to be. A wife, waiting expectantly for the return of her husband, found herself, as she had always been; unmarried. Aged parents who might have once remembered having a son, suddenly had no recollection of his ever having existed. Photographs shimmered a moment, such as a distant mirage and expunged from within that which they once might have captured.

The Man who Never Was travelled West on foot, complicit to the summons which had brought him here. He had plans of his own and scores that he wished to settle. These would have to wait. He would bide his time that while longer.

After sixty centuries, what was another year after all?

* * *

**A/N:** It took me so very long to figure out what I was going to do in regards to Aziraphale and Crowley and their 'trouser' situation. In the end, I couldn't really bypass the whole 'Aziraphale eats so much food and drinks so much stuff, I can't imagine he would find it very practical just magicking on some genitals and the like when...evacuation was required'. As Gabriel said, food is considered to be 'gross matter' so I imagine normal human expungement would be required if an angel were to undertake. Human body after all. Would it not just seem silly and ostentatiously stubborn to not have sex organs in that sense? To run the risk of not blending in? For what, really, at days end? Hence why I went this route with Aziraphale.

As for Crowley, well, I honestly do see him as being fundamentally male but then I struck upon the whole idea of the 'shedding of the skin' and figured that in not ascribing genitalia exclusively that it was a means for him to sort of maintain some weird semblance of control. He is a little more gender fluid than Aziraphale and has lovely feminine energy (which Aziraphale quite obviously has as well) and this is not just on account of the hip swinging thing. This is rather more the nature of the energy he gives out.

This is just what I settled on, after having it rack my brain savagely the entire time I was writing this chapter. I would not have even debated the topic with myself and just given them both male genitalia if not for the novel and Gaimon's confirmation on angel's being sexless. Or... genderless, rather. Hard to see David Tennant strutting around and try and claim it as a sex free zone. And not to combat the cannon of that statement (they are, after all, not my characters) but I simply had queries as to a number of things concerning sexual presentation and as such concluded as I did conclude.

Because in the same vein, I have absolutely no concerns about two men falling in love and having sex with each other. I do believe that as an angel and demon that Aziraphale and Crowley are sexless, but there would not be an issue with the two of them being in male bodies and still finding a means to be together in those bodies. It wouldn't necessarily make them gay, on account of their being two 'genderless' spirits but it also wouldn't matter a jot if it did! At the end of the day, they are two beings who love one another and who gives a toss as to how they choose to be together? As I stated much earlier in the piece, there are some relationships and circumstances that simply defy definition.

Also, I want to be clear that I did not choose to present Crowley as being predominantly genderless because it is a sort of concession to his perhaps being in a quote-unquote traditionally 'female' role in contrast to Aziraphale being in the 'male' role. (Having chosen to adopt male genitalia). I reinforce, I do not care for gender specific roles. And in this case particularly, I lean in favour of fluidity. And I believe that both characters are the SAME. Earthly presentation does not impact what they quintessentially are; two souls who love and care for one another deeply.

Okay, rant officially over! Thanks for joining me on another journey everyone! If you liked, feel free to say why or comment or share or whatever it is you feel like doing.

Take care out there in the world my lovelies and until next time, with all my infernal blessings;  
~Madammortis~ xxx ooo


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Good Omens and make nothing in the writing of this fanfic apart from personal benefit.

**A/N:** Sometimes I wonder, whether the horrible goop that Hastur was catching in his bucket is actually sewerage run off from Heaven. After all, Hell is supposed to be in the 'basement' of the preternatural 'building' what the realms occupy, right? In which case, the demons really have devolved into the roles of would be 'shit-kickers'. No wonder they're so pissed off whenever a pipe breaks!

Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading and following and commenting and kudoing! I appreciate each and every one of you who takes time out of your day to spend a little time with this story of mine! I very much hope that you enjoy this new chapter :)

* * *

**~X~**

_**~The Garden - 4004 BCE~**_

"Got saddled with clean up duty, did you?"

The Angel Aziraphale, assigned Guard to the Eastern Gate, looked over from the seed pods to which he had been tending and set eyes upon the demon Crawley; perched in somehow obstinate fashion upon a stone which appeared to have been conjured for that purpose entirely. He was turning an apple over in his hand, admiring, it seemed, the way in which the sunlight reflected upon its shiny surface.

"Crawley." The angel greeted, as courteous as ever but still ever so slightly perturbed in the presence of his hellish counterpart. They hadn't known each other well at that stage, you see. But what little they _had _had to do with one another, had been surprisingly congenial. "Isn't there a head office you ought to have slunk back to, by now?"

Crawley (for this had been his name in the beginning, long before he had taken to questioning vowels) smiled; a smile which apparently prefaced his intent to tease, for he followed it by saying:

"Thought you might get lonely without someone to talk to. All the other gate guards have been called back to Heaven, haven't they?" His brows lowered now, to form a straight line. His expression one of genuine curiosity, marred by what Aziraphale was starting to recognize as this creature's ever so subtle means of emotional manipulation. "Why are you still here, angel?"

Aziraphale broke away some of the dead fronds of the tree to which he had been tending and cast them aside into a pile he had formed nearby. He passed the sleeve of his robe, once white, now slightly stained, over his sweaty forehead. It really _was _thirsty work. Except that angels did not drink, of course. Not outside of Heaven, anyway. And even then, only as a matter of absolute necessity.

"Oh, it's um... it's Aziraphale, actually." He replied, carefully avoiding feeding too much information back. It made sense, of course. Crawley was a demon. The enemy. Anything Aziraphale was to let slip, either accidentally or otherwise, would be swiftly carried back to the powers of be in Hell and likely cause him far more issues than any he might have landed himself in, simply by virtue of him being _him. _

"Well I might have known that, if you had bothered to introduce yourself earlier." Crawley snorted, a shortcoming of manners which Aziraphale internally chastised himself for. Any self flagellations he might have distributed were put on hold however, as he observed, with intense shock, Crawley taking a large, audacious bite out of the apple he had been earlier admiring. He continued speaking, sending chunks of fruit flying from out between his lips as he did. "It's a long name, isn't it? _Aziraphale_. Rather hard to wrap your mouth around. Suppose its got to be better than 'Crawley' though, doesn't it?"

Aziraphale, feeling quite as though his human body was about to experience its very first cardiac related event, flapped a finger urgently at the apple as though this in itself was enough to prohibit what was occurring.

"Oh... please tell me that's not one of the apples from the... the you know... _that _tree?!"

"Unbunch your feathers, will you? It's from another tree. Not like I need to know the difference between good and evil, anyway. Already got that one down pat." Crawley took another bite of the apple, gave it a good chew and examined the bite mark he had made. Juice dribbled down the sides of his mouth, taking stock of its situation just below his chin. "You ever had an apple, Azirafell? An earth one, I mean?"

"_Phale_" Aziraphale almost snapped, catching himself just soon enough for it to not sound quite as rude as it might otherwise have been_. _He took out what unheavenly annoyance he was nursing by snapping away some browing palm fronds."And no. Obviously."

"Why's it-" And here, just so as to further annoy what was already a struggling angel, Crowley took to mimicking his clipped tone. _"'-obviously'?"_

"Because angel's do _not _imbibe. You should remember that yourself. From before your..." Aziraphale cast his eyes briefly skyward. "...transgression."

The demon did not blink very often, he noticed. Which seemed appropriate, given that he could assume the form of a snake when he so desired. Still, Aziraphale found that the intensity of Crawley's eye contact made him feel nervous in ways that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It wasn't for want of the fact that his eyes were much too big, much too yellow and splintered by a thick black vertical line for a pupil. They seemed to _change _from time to time, he had noticed. Though relatively short so far had been their acquaintance, he had witnessed a shifting of the iris; whereupon it might sometimes be smaller and not disimilar in size to what Aziraphale's might be. Other times, such as now, the yellow encompassed the entirity of the eye, save the pupil which reached now from top to bottom, like a thick, black splinter.

But more than that; it was in how... unashamedly the demon took to meeting his own eyes, which he found to be unnerving. He seemed to demand the very same attention in return and his were eyes that pierced so deeply Aziraphale fancied they might very well have scraped the very surface of his soul. It was hypnotic, in its way and the angel thought it very wise to not allow himself to maintain eye contact for any consistent length of time. It might prove difficult to pull himself away.

"My 'fall', you mean." Crawley said, pushing his gaze with such force that Aziraphale felt rather like two thumbs were being pressed directly into his tear ducts. He looked away, for the effect of it caused him to feel rather dizzy and returned his attentions to yet another of the millions of plants assigned to his care.

"Whatever you choose to call it. Why are you even eating that anyway? So far as I know, you... demon's, don't need to imbibe either."

"_Because I wanted it._" Crawley hissed, taking obvious pleasure in ripping another good chunk from the apples side and swishing it about his mouth with relish. "The day was warm, my mouth was _bone_ _dry_ and boy does a _juicy apple _hit the spot. You should give it a go. No one could argue that you've earned it. Back busting work, that."

It was at once a cruel and clever choice of words. To align _bone dry _and _juicy _in the one sentence. How long had it been that Aziraphale had been stationed here, all but ripping the leathery wad which had once been his tongue away from the insides of his equally dry cheeks? Just about tearing the skin with every forced extraction. He wasn't about to die of thirst any time soon, of course. Angel's could maintain their earthly bodies without need of sustenance.

The problem, it seemed, was that no one had bothered explaining that to the bodies themselves and Aziraphale's was patently confused as to why its inherent biological needs were not being met and reacting as it most deemed appropriate. It made earthly life extremely uncomfortable; as no manner of convincing on his part seemed to have the intended effect of getting the body to _behave. _

Since being in the garden he had experienced such wonders as 'sunburn', in which the earths sun saw fit to sear painful red marks into his skin, which shortly thereafter would attractively blister and start to peel. He felt thirst and hunger and a suspicious painful wrenching of his internals which he suspected was his organs attempting, in spite of Heaven's strong regenerative magic, to shut down. His throat ached much of the time and his feet were sore and he had been sweating and the sweat had started to make him _smell_ and his wings were started to get groddy and flecked by leaves and dirt and any other manner of nasty what-nots that saw fit to adhere themselves.

None of this had of course ever been tested, on a long term basis, by any other angel of Heaven. The earth by this stage was only ten days old. Aziraphale had been here for all ten of them and was, so far, the only angel who had. He was breaking new ground, so to speak. And the ground he was breaking, suggested that angels' probably were not so well suited to long stints within the mortal realm on nothing more than a diet of pious alliteration and Gods omnipresent love.

It seemed obvious to him that Crawley, having been there nearly as long himself, was having a much better time of things. His wings looked clean and well attended to. His skin had taken well to the sun and had adopted a sort of bronzed tone, which Aziraphale suspected he would never have any chance of ever coming close. He appeared relatively chipper and nourished. If one were to ignore the tangles of leaves and twigs which had affixed themselves to the curls of his long, red hair.

"Oh, please. Haven't you caused quite enough damage with all your tempting?" Aziraphale said, naturally resisting (for what else was an angel to do when it comes to the wiles of a demon?) and abandoning his garden duties for the time being. He crossed to where Crowley was sitting, angled himself so as to pass by his wings and set his fingers to work on the knots of his hair; fetching out pieces of twig and the like and dropping them onto the ground. The demon of course, let him do as he pleased, for there was never anything in all the worlds quite so mother hen, as an angel. The fact that Crawley was fallen meant nothing so far as Aziraphale was concerned. Perhaps it rather strengthened his need to fuss.

"What? You afraid God's going to throw _you _out of the garden next?" Crowley scoffed, wincing as Aziraphale pulled a very erstwhile twig out of a particularly obstinate knot. "_Ow! Easy._"

"Well, I can't really help it, you ought to see what your hair looks like from the back! What have you been doing; rolling around in the bushes?" Aziraphale sighed, teasing out the knot as best he could, before moving his fingers over to untangle the one beside it. "Between you and me," He added, lowering his voice for what little it was worth, "I'm not entirely sure I would mind if the Almighty _did _throw me out of the garden. This new 'rain' thing has certainly helped but there's still an awful lot of foliage to care for. And it has been terribly hot, as of late."

"Better you than me. Can't think of a worse way to spend your time. Taking care of plants. You know what would _really _take your mind off of things?" He raised the apple slowly into view over his shoulder, bringing his other hand around so as to gesture reverentially towards it. Harmonizing all the while as though the apple were some Holy relic of Heaven.

Aziraphale couldn't quite help but smile at this. Say what you will but the demon was rather funny in his way. And there were Angels of Heaven who were not nearly so fair minded as Crawley had shown himself to be thus far.

"Honestly." Aziraphale tutted, giving Crawley's hair a good tug just so as to teach him a lesson for his cheek. "Haven't you got somewhere better to be?"

"Somewhere better to b-?" Crawley might have spun about just so that Aziraphale could fully appreciate the look of disgust on his face but his shoulders were swiftly pushed about to face front again. "Where the Heaven do you _think _I've got to go that's better than this? A dead camel's arsehole would be better than where _I've _got to go back to, angel!"

"I would have expected your superiors would have wanted you to have checked in by now." Aziraphale worked out another bur and scraped what looked like dry mud out from a tangled knot. "Slap you with a commendation for your 'great victory'."

"Time will tell _who _it's a victory for. And call me crazy, but I'm in no rush to wiggle my arse back downstairs and spent my idle hours staining soggy paperwork with ink blots and jamming my finger into leaky pipes. It's nice up here." Crawley stretched out his wings, tilting his head back and resting his palms on the rock. He closed his eyes as Aziraphale took to scratching at his scalp, pulling back on the long strands of hair so that it near ran as smooth as water. "Get to get my fix of sun while I can. Speaking of which, ya never did answer me before. Why are _you_ still hanging around though? Surely the Almighty's not just making you tend an empty garden for the forseeable future?" He opened his eyes, gave Aziraphale a both upside down and simultaneously sidelong glance. "Did She find out about the sword?"

Aziraphale held a finger to his lips, shushing the demon with urgency. "Shhhh! _No, she didn't find out about the sword_! Not for want of you blabbing about it!" He started sweeping his fingers down through the base of Crawley's hair, separating the locks. There weren't quite so many knots left now. "The surrounding world will start to grow fertile due to the rains and the seeds from the garden will spread to cover the earth. I need to keep things maintained for as long as possible. And then, once the human race has expanded enough, I've been asked to watch over them as they grow. Provide them with some positive guidance. And the like."

"How fun for you." Crawley said sarcastically, crossing his legs and taking another bite from the apple. He looked every bit a creature who plainly expected his purpose in life was to be pampered. "Any idea how long that's going to take?"

"Eight hundred years. Give or take a decade."

Aziraphale all but sprang back from Crawley as a group of people entered from behind a copse of trees in the garden. Of course to suggest that they are people was not entirely accurate. They were thirteen, in all. Neither Angels nor demons. Much older than both, in fact and, if rumour was to be believed, originated as sort of... sub-stock of... whatever it was that She herself came from. Kind of how a CEO might bring some of their loyal sub-managers over when taking charge of a new organisation, that sort of thing.

_They _were the Principle Virtues and the Capital Vices. Charged by the Almighty with the unenviable task of divining, extrapolating and implementing the multi-faceted framework which formed the core of every sentient being. It was they who had been responsible for first assisting God with the creation of his Angels (a task vastly overrepresented by the Virtues, one must say). The vices had been responsible for the then creation of the Hellscape and whom had shaped the transformative sulphar which sculpted, decimated and corrupted the souls of those angels who transgressed beyond those values instilled within them by the Virtues. All those angels who rebelled were thrown down and warped into those states then deemed considered to be 'opposing' ; a perhaps to be considered 'extension' of their already failing Virtuous states.

The Virtues and the Vices were then subsequently tasked by God to create those beings who would populate her world; the human race. A considerable feat, given the precision by which they had been required to balance out the inordinate and unprecidented mathematical equations with which to achieve a nominal balance of components, which might still result in some degree of natural autonomy. It had been ten days so far since they had rolled their, considered to be 'completed' product out onto the factory floor. It had taken seven for a certain 'demon' to have successfully thrown a wrench into it.

Though not of angelic stock, you would be mistaken for assuming they were. They had four wings a piece; the larger primary set were of the same white as Aziraphale's (once) had been and the smaller lesser wings were as black and as luxurious as Crawley's. Six were presenting as female, whilst five presented as male. All were dressed in a robe of similar style to Aziraphale's, though grey in colour. None of them looked to be in a particularly good mood.

It was the one named Industria who had spoken first. Her name might later be known in English as Diligence. And though a Virtue, she appeared particularly pissed off, all but driving her bare foot through the pile of Aziraphale's cast off dead branches and turning them to ash in the process.

"Time enough, one might suppose to work out all the expected kinks of the exponential inbreeding that's invariably about to occur." She added, coming to a stop by the angel and the demon and crossing her arms in a way which might be considered the very definition of passive aggressive. "Now that we no longer have the luxury of introducing variant models into the mix so as to avoid all the genetic muddling and... sexual intermingling of direct siblings and... webbed fingers, excess body hair and _Almighty _knows what else. Eyuck."

"Oh, spare the small talk, darling." The one called Luxuria said, brushing long fingernails back through her extravagant floof of curly black hair. Eyes the colour of a martagon lilly flickering between both Aziraphale and Crowley with a hint of dangerous appreciation which certainly made Aziraphale feel rather the more uncomfortable than he really rather needed to be. "Now which one of you sweet dears is Crawley?"

"I'll give you a hint, _darling._" Crawley all but purred, straightening up from his reclined posture upon the rock and gifting the collective with a look so positively smarmy it made Aziraphale flinch with precipatory concern."He mightvery probably be the one with the funny eyes and the black wings. Just a thought."

"So it's you!" Snarled the one named Superbia, who (by modern standards) looked to be some bizarre amalgamation of a moviestar, politician, CEO of a multimillion dollar conglomorate and, quite frankly, anyone who sings into a microphone and sells the songs they probably haven't even written for a lot of money. And then use that money to buy a jetplane, stupid gold jewellery and respect that they haven't earned.

This very strange Chimera of a creature, was quite obviously not happy. Their earlier snarling at Crawley might have been proof enough. But in case this was to have proved too subtle, they did indeed have a backup plan. This involved all but storming up to what had, until precious moments earlier, been a largely relaxed and contented demon (head massages and sunshine tend to have that effect) and striking him so forcefully with the back of his ring laiden hand that Crawley was sent to rolling off of the rock.

"You're the slimy little shit who got her to eat that apple, aren't you?!" Superbia shrieked, casting their foot into the demon's side with such force it shot the air clear from Crawley's human lungs.

The violent act quite naturally shocked Aziraphale, as violence always had. He was no stranger to it, sadly. He had fought in the Great War and though never having landed a killing, or even near fateful blow, had sent quite a few of what had been his former colleagues into the Hell portal for subsequent damnation. That was not to suggest that he ever enjoyed, or even approved of such a thing. Pain was abhorent to bear witness to and it would not have mattered at all who was the recipient. The fact that Crawley was a demon was immaterial.

He was concerned as well that Crawley might have fought back. Demon's were renowned for their temper after all; just one of those things the sulphar had exacerbated when they had passed through it. But Crawley surprised him in having a rather the contrary reaction. He didn't waste even a second in being shocked over what had happened but instead, scrambled straight to his feet and literally shot behind Aziraphale, pressing himself in tight against the angel's back as some manner of protection. Naturally, Aziraphale spread his wings out, prepared to shield him from any further reprisal.

"Now, there's not need for _that!_" He said, greatly upset and feeling just the slightest tinge of anger align to his words."He was simply doing the job that was asked of him!"

"Why are you shielding him?" Asked Luxuria, managing somehow to maintain an incomparable air of both magnetic attractiveness and boredom at the same time. It was a skillset of which the modelling agency in twentieth century times would extol with such natural effeciency.

"I'm not _shielding _him! Rather he's using _me _as a shield!"

"And you do it so well." Crawley murmured, his no doubt swollen face still pressed to the space between Aziraphale's wings. He had a firm hold of the back of the angel's robe and was pressed in so tight it might very well have taken a real miracle to have prised him free. He was using the handholds fairly much in the same manner as one might have held the straps of a shield and was steering Aziraphale slightly from side to side, anticipating where the next attack might be coming. It was an unnecessary thing, for Aziraphale had no intention of stepping aside and leaving the demon vulnerable. It was simply not in an Angel's charter.

"Now, let us all try our best and stay calm." Aziraphale urged, holding up both hands as a means of placating the situation. He wasn't certain, but he felt as though the demon might have been trembling. It did not seem likely, however. "What appears to be the problem?"

"The _problem, _Angel of the Eastern gate," So contributed Invidia. "Is that we distributed a fully tested, bug free product into the marketplace and next thing we know, some greasy little Hell tic has talked it into corrupting its system."

"Hey." Crawley said from over Aziraphale's shoulder. Quite unable to help himself, it would seem. "I was _not _the one who put the tree there. You got a beef with it? Take it up with your precious Almighty. She's the one who dangled the lure in front of their faces. I just told them how to reach it!"

"Slipped the hook right on through their lips, more like." So said Humanitas.

"It was their choice to bite_. _Free will. Isn't that the code you were most _proud _of? Their capacity for autonomous thought?"

Superbia, their human features turning a rather fetching shade of purple, made as though to push on past Aziraphale and get to Crawley once more. The Angel fluffed out his wings to even greater breadth, sending out a shower of sand and dirt with his efforts. The anger was now undeniable, the feeling of being somehow responsible for the disgraced being at his back; whether the demon was using him or otherwise.

"Do _not _strike him again! I shall not repeat myself!"

There was something incontestable in the angel's tone. Something which transgressed the soft, warm and somehow nervous exterior he presented. Which harkened back to the Principality, whom had weilded such considerable power at the Lord's behest. This might have certainly been a wholesome, compassionate and loving creature beyond compare but he was in the same breath, one whom could very easily stand his ground where required. It was precisely the reason as to why he had been appointed as Guard of the Eastern Gate in the first place and was a fact that ought not readily be dismissed.

The one named Temperentia remembered this and so guided Superbia back before then approaching herself, hands pressed together to form a non-threatening, yet indisuputibly and somewhat contestably phallic shaped pillar with her hands.

"You must understand." She said, in a voice which might one day, when they were to be invented, be compared to the tolling of bells. ...Medium sized bells, specifically. "We spent so much time assisting the Almighty. Designing Her perfect subjects according to Her vision. Instilling them with the perfect balance of varying traits, emotions and so on and so forth."

"And now because of you, the breadth of our project has been expanded." Added Acedia, looking tired and bored as did they always. They might truly have been as irritated as their counterparts but it was not in their nature to go to any great pains in expressing it. "The Almighty has requested we roll out the project from scratch. There goes retirement. Our pension - whoosh - right out the window."

"Well, to be fair... your contract really was a rather short lived one. All things considered." Aziraphale gently reminded them. It was solace ever so poorly received, though he hadn't expected they were ever likely to cheer up. Gloom hung over their heads like a querulous toad guarding its slimy egg pouch.

"You have any idea what it's like to create a being whose components balance out in perfect symmetry, boy? Took moons longer than the two of you'll ever know. We earned our retirement. And now because of your _friend _here -" Gula spat on the ground near Aziraphale's feet, though he had quite obviously been aiming for Crawley, who remained smugly out of reach. "- we got our work done cut out for us, _again_."

"We're hardly friends." Aziraphale tittered nervously, as Crawley, not appearing the least concerned by the insinuation, poked his head through the angels feathers just long enough to hiss at Gula's moustached face. "He is a demon and I am an angel. That's about the long and the short of it."

"A demon that you persist in shielding." Acedia commented, lifting a brow curtly. A remark which Aziraphale rather did not feel the need to deny so much as provide context concerning.

"Well your colleague struck him! Right in the face. _And _kicked him. It was dreadfully uncalled for!" He straightened up, a posture of which came quite natural to Aziraphale when he was espousing what he felt to be the very true and very proper manner in which an angelic composed itself. Timid though Aziraphale might have seemed in some respects, he was courageous when it came to his morals. "I may very well be an angel and he may very well be a demon but I do _not _condone ill behaviour towards anyone, regardless of where they hail. You must _always_ act with kindness, in spite of how anyone else might choose to behave. And to attack someone in such an unexpected and unprecidented manner is worse than cruel! It is inherently _wrong_." His wings had started to feel the slightest bit strained from having to hold them at such an angle but much as he had that first time in the rain, he refused to leave the demon without shelter. "Those who worked at the side of the Almighty should know better than anyone."

"You must understand that they are disappointed." Said Caritas, whose soft eyes said all too plainly that he understood where Aziraphale was coming from. His ability to perceive anger was naturally inhibited, given who and what he was. But his compassion for his colleagues meant that he quite assuredly could reflect what it was that they were feeling and empathize with their situation. "We worked _hard _for this. And now, we must spend the next eight centuries on earth, following the fledging human race and aiding in the development of their own far more advanced and differential perspectives of right and wrong and good and evil. It is far much more beyond what any of us could ever have expected."

"Or ever could have expected to do in an uncontrolled environment. The amount of variables that this world possesses alone... How the Almighty expects us to reach a satisfactory conclusion with all these compounding factors alone, well!" Superbia pointed at Crawley, whose large luminous eyes had chanced another glimpse out from between a gap in Aziraphale's feathers. "I hope you're happy. Because of you and your people's stupid _bullshit _prediliction for causing stupidity, I'm going to be spending the next eight hundred years strolling this barren arse turd of a world, running diagnostics on a bunch of misfiring, virus riddled human beings!"

"Please darling, do try to calm down." Castistas urged, taking hold of Superbia by the elbows and leading them to walk about the enclosed area in circles, whilst they waved their hands superfluously at their faces in some meagre attempt to calm themselves. The demons eyes narrowed from between their bracket of white feathers, one brow sliding up to form what might be considered a questioning expression.

"Wasn't there supposed to be fourteen of you?" He asked; a query which set the Vices and Virtues to all staring at one another awkwardly. He persisted nonetheless or perhaps moreso as a result _of _said awkwardness. "Yeah, I'm sure there were. Fourteen. Seven and Seven. You lose one on the way here, or something, did you?"

Humanitas paused a moment, her eyes lighting suddenly with the dawn of recognition. "Oh yes, now I remember you. The Almighty warned us about _you_. She said if you started asking us questions, that we were to do this."

And as one, the Vices and Virtues turned on their heels and walked swiftly out and away from the clearing. Superbia, clearly still practicing patience that they simply were not in possession of, made a gesture with their middle finger that would one day become the standard colloquial invitation for one to go forth and to copulate with oneself. Crawley stepped out from behind Aziraphale at long last, having to all but prize his little demonic meat hooks out of the back of the angels robe.

"You know if I actually had feelings, they might have hurt them just now."

Aziraphale couldn't help but notice that the demon's fingers appeared to have a slight tremble to them. He had set them to the mark on his face; a painful raw looking cut from where a ring on Superbia's finger had grazed him. The fingertips trembled ever so slightly; tellingly. Aziraphale could not quite recall a time in which his own hands had taken to shaking. He thought perhaps the demon to have been more upset by the largely unprovoked attack than he was otherwise letting on.

"Well... _that_ was certainly something."

"Yeah." Crawley murmured, staring off absentmindedly towards the gap in the grove where the Vices and Virtues had left. His eyes looked especially big and, to Aziraphale, especially lost. There was something vulnerable in the uncertainty of his gaze. Something dimuniative which made it seem as though he was so terribly in need of protection. Which was a silly thing to think about a demon, really.

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asked all the same. Because he was nothing if not kind.

"Who just rounds off and hits someone with a big old ring like that?" Crawley asked, doing his utmost to sound flippant about the matter. Aziraphale noticed that he was favouring his stomach with the hand currently not nursing his wounded cheek. "Seems a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Yes, it really rather was. But I dare say that they were cross with you." He reached up, taking the demon's hand away from his face and passing his palm over the wound on his cheek. He did the same to Crawley's midsection; an act which might have taken him by surprise if it simply wasn't the sort of thing he had come to expect of the strange angel. Since shielding him from that very first rain, Aziraphale had proven himself to be an exceptionally compassionate and venerate being; whose empathy extended far beyond the expectations which might be readily paraded by any of his ostentatious kin. "You can't blame them, really. So far as all the contracted work undertaken at God's behest, the construction of the Human Engine was by far the most gruelling and complex of them all. Most of their team took compassionate leave at some point or another. The calculations alone which were required to thread the infinitesimal cords and synapses of the human mind and to thread instinct and learned behaviour and the like, well...!" He gave the demon a kindly look; a look which the demon for some reason felt the overwhelming need to turn away from. "It took over a thousand years for them to write the blueprint alone, Crawley. You can't imagine they would be pleased that you systematically undermined and rewrote their software all by want of a few clever words."

"Ohh... so you think my words are clever, do you?" Crawley said, turning back now with a pleased smile. A smile Aziraphale ignored as he set the tips of his fingers to the demon's angular jawbone and tilted it from side to side; making good and certain that the injury was satisfactorily healed.

"Perhaps too clever for your own good. Strange that you didn't stand your ground. I thought a demon would be all too eager to go to fisticuffs."

"'Go to fisticuffs'?" Crowley snorted. "_Please. _Never was much of a fighter. More of a... conscientious objector, really."

"How in Heaven does a 'conscientious objector' end up throwing in with a rebel faction and fighting against the armies of God?" Aziraphale asked, naturally sceptical.

"Well I didn't know it was going to be an actual _war _when I got swept up in it, did I? I rather thought it a light hearted lampoon at the oft times questionable decision making policy of a dictatorial agenda ruled over by a, for the most part unseen, unreachable, largely unknowable supremicist. I thought at the most we might chant something, wave some placards, glue ourselves to the floor, that sort of thing. I had no idea the knives were gonna come out."

"You must have had _some _idea."

Crawley gave him a strange look at this. A look which suggested he found something left wanting in what Aziraphale had just said. As though he had... disappointed him in some way. "_Must_, huh?"

"Yes, you must! A demon doesn't simply get thrown out because he got caught up with something on account of ignorance! There must be more to it than that."

"So you don't have even the slightest doubt that your precious God could act out just because some folks bothered to-" He leaned in close to Aziraphale's ear, wagging his tongue from side to side in his mouth and emitted a low, sullen sounding hiss. "-waggle their tongues?"

"_I _believe, that everything happens for a reason." Aziraphale replied calmly, refusing to rise to the bait.

"Oh there's _always _a reason, angel. Just not all reason's are black and white." Aziraphale felt something drop into his hand. It was the apple Crawley had been eating. "But what would I know? I'm nothing but a _Fallen_, after all."

Crawley was walking away now, sort of swishing from side to side as he went. It seemed apropos, Aziraphale thought, much in line to the sinuous coils a snake might make as it wound its way along the ground. Each coil jutting out wide before swooping back in dramatically. Crawley's hips it seemed, followed much the same set of rules.

He turned as he walked, somehow still maintaining the same strange winding rhythm as he went. Lifting his brows so that his eyes went quite as wide as they could surely ever go.

"You do know that it was one of yours who took a run at us first? Michael?"

"I find that hard to believe." Aziraphale said with a nervous chuckle, which said that he did not find this quite so difficult to believe as he pretended. Crawley smiled, ever so genuine and felt again that lovely little pang of fondness that he had nursed for the angel since the very moment they had met. He was ever so sweet, ever so well meaning and ever so more deserving of so much more than Heaven could offer him.

"Of _course_ you do. And it'll be a sad day, when the thought comes easy to you." He changed form, sinking back down into that of the snake in which he had first entered this world. Wound over once more to twine briefly about Aziraphale's bare feet and tilted its head up to appraise him with its large, lidless eyes. "Be seeing you, angel." It hissed, before then slithering and sliding off into the bushes; leaving a indentured coil in the still rain softened earth.

Aziraphale was left with the apple. He might not have ordinarily considered it, but something had stirred in him. Perhaps it was having been on earth as long as he had. His human body had its needs after all. And the days following the rain _had _been hot. His mouth was dry, his tongue was cracked and sore. The apple looked to him as though it were the oasis poised betwixt an endless desert. Whatever might have possessed him in that moment was enough to overcome whatever consternations he might have previously and ever so staunchly adhered to.

He took a bite from the side of the apple that Crawley had left conspicuously untouched. It was quite as juicy, as sweet and as satisfying as he had ever imagined it might ever have been. The first taste of that forbidden fruit, was undoubtedly the very sweetest of all. And Crawley, quite as convinced as he had been with the human woman, had poised between the bushes; watching as the angel had taken that first step, if not downwards, but into a world where a question was not so much a sin as it was an invitation. And that very first bite was just as delicious to the serpent as it was to the angel who had taken it.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N: **(Random Good Omens Factoid) It mentions in the novel that Crowley's human form is his 'favourite' form and that he does nurse some concerns around shape shifting, because he's worried he will have some difficulty with shifting back into his human body again.

This is one of the many reasons as to why I do not heavily lean into Crowley just turning into a snake on a whim, even though I understand it's quite popular in fandom to think that he does. Honestly, you see him do it ONCE on the show, which does not actually suggest that it's something he does regularly or even, at ALL, post the Garden of Eden. If it wasn't for the fact that he has snake eyes, I would have even gone so far as to say that a snake is simply ONE of the guises he can assume and of no real importance at days close.

I do in fact like that the book makes a point of saying that Crowley has trepidations around changing forms, because, really? If he liked doing so and was comfortable doing so, he had hundreds of opportunities in the T.V show where it would have been both appropriate and even helpful for him to have turned into a snake. He does not, I believe, because he likes his human body the most and does not actually see himself as a serpent. It's a part of him, yes, but not a part that factors into his character quite as much as people seem to think that it does. He LIKES being human, and in fact VERY much likes the novelties and privileges what being human affords him. Much easier to sip a glass of single malt in human form then it is if you're a snake.

Anyway, off on a rant again, sorry! If you enjoyed, please feel free to comment, all the usual. Until next time, and with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** All your bases are belong to me. But Good Omens does not belong to me. Which I admit is tough; being in this polyamarous relationship.

**A/N: **Thanks as always to everyone who is reading :) Your random Good Omens factoid of the day: In the opening credits, did you notice that in the first few screens Crowley is walking in front of Aziraphale? As though leading the way? I think by about the third screen, Aziraphale is then walking in front of Crowley. I wonder if it represents Aziraphale's changing mindset about his relationship with Crowley? Getting on board with the arrangement, so to speak.

Wouldn't surprise me. You know how clever that Good Omens Crew is :)

* * *

_**~London SoHo - February 4th, 2019~**_

_**~A.Z. Fell and Co~**_

Flash forward some six thousand years. Crowley is standing in Aziraphale's bookshop. The time is somewhere mid-morning-ish. He is holding, in each of his hands, two perfectly separated halves of an apple. He looks quite as pleased with himself as does an airport security guard who has just seen someone stopping for more than five seconds in a non-drop off zone.

"Check it out. Perfect divide, straight down the guts of it. With nothing but my bare hands."

Aziraphale, sitting in his study space, tapped the edge of the knife that he had been preparing to use, against the woodgrain of his desk. Puffed air from the corner of his mouth to form an exasperated little tut.

"You know, I could have just cut it in half."

"Yeah, but where's the fun in that? And-" The demon turned his hands around to show the backs of them. "I only broke five fingernails this time."

"Only five?" Aziraphale asked, wincing at the snapped and bloodied stumps which might have once been not so unattractive nails. His own manicurist would be bleating with alarm if she were to bear witness to such a travesty of uncouth cuticle care.

"Yeah." The demon said, eyes starting to tear up as his excitement wore off just enough to allow for agony to slink on in and set up camp. "I'm in quite a bit of pain, right now."

Aziraphale sighed, giving a good natured roll of his eyes as he heaved himself out of his chair. "Come along then." He said, passing the hand which bore his distinct gold pinkie ring over both of Crowley's, healing the broken nails instantaneously. "I'm assuming you got this bright idea from one of your beloved_ Tube _videos?"

"Yeah, of course. Along with the makeup. Thought you might have said something about the makeup by now."

"Yes, I was going to. But then you persisted on wrestling with my apple."

"I wanted to make sure we got equal parts, angel." Crowley tossed Aziraphale the two pieces of now perfectly divided apple; which the angel quite nearly battered off into oblivion in his blustery state. "Here. Can you slice mine into little chunks and take the skin off?"

Aziraphale sighed, nonetheless indulgently as he plonked back down into his study chair and used the aforementioned abandoned knife to start peeling the skin off of the apple.

"Don't I always? Would his Royal Highness of Hell like for his feet to be rubbed whilst he eats the apple? That's assuming you don't need me to do the chewing for you first."

Crowley, drifting as expectantly as ever towards the liquor cabinet with much the same veracity as the earths orbit of the sun, ignored the angel's sarcastic tone and directed his energy into pouring himself a before yardam drink. This had been happening quite a bit lately, now that he was finding himself with much less to do with the hours of his days.

"Should be fine so long as you take the skin off. Hate when apple skin gets caught between your teeth."

Crowley, it should be said, was learning a lot of things about himself following the Armage-Don't even bother. And not just about how painful a shred of errant apple skin feels when it slips on into an inopportune gap between your teeth. But other things. Other more decidedly prevalent, important and meaningful things. _Him _things.

One of those things, was that he was inherently bad at keeping himself entertained.

Say what you will, the work of the devil kept his hands from getting idle. And it always presented him with a means of directing his thoughts and energy into an avenue in which to express his insurmountable creativity.

Crowley was a clever creature. And clever creatures never much like to be left to their own devices. Now that he was no longer dancing to the beat of Hell's drum, he came to the swift conclusion that he actually had very little with which to fill his days.

Aziraphale, of course, still had his bookstore to keep him busy. Even if he spent most of the time there attempting to deflect customers from ever actually entering the shop. He could still otherwise occupy his days with the filling of orders, cataloguing, collecting and the running of the books. Crowley could not reasonably expect to spend all day every day simply hanging about the shop. He had already gotten in trouble for being underfoot on a number of occasions and further distracting Aziraphale from whatever he might have been doing, simply for want of attention. They would still meet for lunch or dinner or some other sort of outing but this still left many hours of the day in which Crowley was required to tend to his own needs. And he was finding this difficult.

He spent a lot more time in his apartment than he could ever remember having done so before. He took care of his plants, spritzing them with water, rotating the ones that had been growing well out onto the deck for some 'photosynthesis privileges' and of course, executing the ones that had failed him by means of jamming their leafy bodies, dirt and all, down the garbage disposal. The house plants had, as a result of Crowley's increased attention, taken to shaking with such violence that the apartment was now filled with a permanent breeze which meant that Crowley was getting around in the company of his security blanket far more than he should have been.

In his retirement, Crowley had also taken a liking to watching video's on YouTube. Especially, the instructional videos. This proved to be something of amusement to Aziraphale, when Crowley had rocked up to his bookshop that very morning, with a full face of makeup, purple lipstick and eyes that had been so garishly attended to that he looked quite ready to premier in his very own demonic themed drag show.

"So on the topic of your makeup. I take it this is a new... interest for you?" Aziraphale had asked, placing the small plate on which he had arranged the now skinned and carefully sliced apple onto the table beside the couch. Crowley, helping himself to some sort of libation from the liquor cabinet, actually took the time to express offense for the pause before which the word 'interest' had been slotted.

"I'd _hardly _go so far as to say 'interest', angel. I've been watching makeup tutorials online. You know. When they pop up in the feed." He sipped from his Barossa Valley Shiraz and deposited himself unceremoniously as usual into his favourite nook in the corner settee. As per his standard, he ignored the one or two customers who had managed to somehow infiltrate the divergent barriers of Aziraphale's shop and tossed a piece of apple into his mouth itinerantly. "You wouldn't _believe _how difficult it is to get your eyebrows even. I'm thinking about having them micro-bladed, what do you think?"

"I think you might need another hobby." Aziraphale said, giving a teasing little scrunch of his nose as he returned to ticking things off on his clipboard. He took a piece of apple for himself and relegated it to one side of his mouth for chewing. It was a good apple; Crowley had picked them up from the local farmers market on his behest. The demon was always in the habit of selecting out from amongst the pile the very sweetest and reddest of apples. Suprises none.

"I _did _have another hobby, but you told me I'm not allowed to make any more volcano's out of match sticks."

"And for good reason." Aziraphale said, exasperated. He had to hold up his fingers at the last moment to prevent the near expulsion of the apple he'd been chewing. "You about blew up most of your flat! And instead of calling the fire brigade, you called _me _over to help you fight it with a fire extinguisher and a wet blanket. And then you told the landlord that _I _was the one who set the fire in the first place!"

Crowley smirked, nodding happily at the memory. The look on Aziraphale's soot streaked sweet as pie little face as he stammered his genuine innocence, whilst Crowley stood off to the side, looking as though butter wouldn't melt on his (metaphorically) forked tongue… He may not have been an Active Demon anymore, but it seemed he would never shake the pleasure he took out of being bad.

"That being said, is there anything I can do for you? Aside from cutting up apples and critiquing your current list of extensive, and ever more _questionable, _hobbies."

Crowley couldn't help but pull a face at this. Way to come off as sounding so impersonal towards someone you had been palling around with for the effective part of sixty centuries.

"I was just in the neighbourhood." Having driven purposefully to the bookshop with the explicit intention of visiting Aziraphale wasn't _quite _in the realm of 'being in the neighbourhood' but he was hardly going to be upfront concerning his dependency issues. "Thought I might let you treat your favourite demon to a spot of lunch."

"For one, I certainly wouldn't be treating 'my favourite demon' to _anything _if he insists on going out in public looking like _that._"

Crowley sighed, passing a hand across his face and removing the thick layers of makeup he had spent hours painstakingly applying.

"For another, I'm afraid I simply haven't the time. I have a shipment that's supposed to be arriving anywhere between now and two o'clock." Aziraphale placed his clipboard down, puffing up with genuine pleasure. "The _Tamerlane and Other poems _by Edgar Allan Poe! I have been trying to get my hands on it for the last eighty years. There are only _twelve_ in print remaining and I finally managed to secure one from a deceased estate!"

"Well, I know how anxious it makes you when a collection is incomplete." Crowley said, both empathetically and accurately. He took another sip from his glass, gargled the rich red wine a moment before swallowing. He glanced around the shop, as though something of interest might invariably present itself if he looked hard enough. "Is there… anything I can do to help around here?"

The gesture might have been a kind one if Aziraphale wasn't all too aware of what Crowley was like; especially when he was bored. On one occasion, he had 'assisted' with the stacking of a series of books for storefront presentation and, finding the standard staircase approach far too underachieving, had created something of an enormous card house which scraped the awning of what was a considerably high ceiling. When he had been placing the very last book atop the precarious structure, it ended up toppling over and the entire thing collapsed, taking Crowley, the ladder he was standing on and the five hundred pound bottle of sherry he'd been drinking, with it.

"Well…" Aziraphale drawled, feeling more the awkward as Crowley stared at him, unblinkingly, with a strange pup like quality that one wouldn't think a being with snake eyes would be capable of generating. Aziraphale always found it difficult to marshal his nerves whenever Crowley stared at him like that. It was the precise reason he attempted to avoid eye contact whenever he was trying to stand strong on a point. All his reservations just seemed to drain away.

But then he remembered that there _had _been something he'd been meaning to get around to for quite some time now and had kept putting off because it was simply too terrible a bore. And it hardly seemed the sort of thing that Crowley would permit himself to do poorly, even unintentionally.

"You know I… I have been meaning to sit down and run through my accounts." Aziraphale said, glancing at Crowley sidelong. The demon, as expected did not leap off of the couch with girlish glee at the suggestion but rather sank further into it, groaning as he brought the glass to his forehead. "I'm usually so meticulous with them but with the Apocalypse and all, I've just gone and let them slip by for so long. You're _ever _so clever when it comes to numbers. (Aziraphale was, ostensibly, every bit as good with numbers, perhaps even more so. But this was hardly about to win him the arguement, was it?) Plus you know how I get around technology. It simply causes me a never ending headache."

"_You're _a never ending headache." Crowley grumbled, pulling back another sip of the scotch before then making the very same mistake Aziraphale himself had been attempting _not _to. He looked into the angels warm and earnest eyes, his round face all but set in what had to have been an unintentional pout but was nevertheless just as effective as Crowley's earlier staring. He found himself, as he so often did, softening. "Oh… fine then." He grunted, swinging himself off of the couch and topping up his glass once more from the cabinet. He would be needing it, after all.

"Oh, really?" Aziraphale said, beaming so beautifully it made Crowley feel a little sick inside. "That would be ever so kind."

"Shut it, or I won't be helping at all." Crowley said, pointing a finger in warning before crossing into the back room and setting himself down by the ancient computer system Aziraphale had done his utmost in recent days to avoid. "Right. Where are your stupid invoices. I'll make a start on them."

It should never have pleased Aziraphale as much as it did to get his way with Crowley. Such a thing hardly seemed in the spirt of being an angel, after all. But of course, he wasn't _really _an angel. Not anymore. So he found himself not feeling as sorry for it as he might once have done. Crowley _had _offered to help, after all. And he _was_ in need of a distraction.

So whilst Aziraphale contented himself with cataloguing and passively-aggressively putting off his would be customers, Crowley buried himself in an impressive pile of invoices, old receipts and letters from the tax office which spanned something of the better part of a half century. Aziraphale had been correct in his assessment of Crowley's proficiency with numbers; it had been, after all, how Crowley had managed to accomplish many of his diabolic feats. To say nothing of the twenty or so degrees he had attained, simply for want of having something to do in his idle hours. None of which he had any interest in pursuing much further than putting them in a silver frame and hanging them on the walls of his apartment.

Even whence in possession of a noggin containing a notoriously clever and cunning brain, it still took Crowley the better part of five hours (and one and a half bottles of imported wine) to work his way through a mere half pile of the papers from just _one _of the boxes Aziraphale kept his documents in. By that stage he was grumpier than ever, quite drunk and had eaten only a few bites of a sandwich Aziraphale had lovingly let at his elbow at some point following noon. The angel knew full well that Crowley was getting shot of the task, as he had taken to swinging around in his chair at some ventures, staring at the ceiling and singing lines from _The Greatest Showman. _Trying, without much success mind, to hit the elusive high notes, which had the secondary, though not unappreciated side effect of driving the remaining customers from the shop.

He called it quits at about 5:45pm, when his eyes felt so strained that he was forced to pry the lids back with his thumbs. All the numbers were swirling around in a blurred miasma of ink, his head ached from thinking and his fingers were approaching carpel tunnel with a veracity unprecedented from his continued pounding of the ancient calculator Aziraphale kept on his desk. (Crowley was quite surprised to find that it wasn't an abicus, but there you go).

"Right. I've balanced as much as I can. Any more and I'm going to go permanently cross eyed." Aziraphale placed a cup of coffee down by Crowley's hand and the demon immediately brought it up to his mouth, uncaring as to whether it scalded him or not. "And seriously, _why _did you go and let it _get _this bad?! You've got invoices in here that date all the way back to 1935! How I'm supposed to reconcile that with any existing income is beyond me! And here I was thinking you were actually _good _with this sort of thing!"

"Oh, I know. I _have _let it get terribly out of hand." Aziraphale confessed, looking truly and genuinely aggrieved by the state of his finances. "But thank you for all that you have done. In the very least you have taken a good chunk out of the workload for me."

"Eh." Crowley grunted, pretending not so well not to care as he sipped his coffee. In actuality, it gave him a warm feeling to be of help to Aziraphale. It just got a little embarrassing when he was thanked for it so sincerely. "Okay. _Now _that I've taken a run at this and you've got your book all lined up with the rest of your precious _Edgar Allan Poe_ collection can we _please _get out of here? Go out for dinner or _something! _I don't care. We can get henna tattoos or go for a teeth bleaching, whatever."

"As much as I would like to-" Aziraphale got no further than that before Crowley was sinking his head down into the still littered paperwork, groaning disparately. "Oh, I am sorry, it's just… well, I just need a little _me _time. I was hoping to spend the evening reading. Put my feet up a while."

"But what are you going to _eat?" _Crowley offsided from the midst of the aged, frayed and now incomprehensively stacked invoices. He felt this a very important question to ask, as Aziraphale did have a rather one-eyed appreciation when it came to food and it would have been both odd and extremely out of character for him to eschew any one of his daily meals.

"Thought I might just order in." Aziraphale said, beaming. And then, because Crowley looked about as close to crying as a demon could reasonably be, added: "Of course you're welcome to stay and have a bite to eat first. I wouldn't want you to go hungry."

"Well don't do me any favours." Crowley snapped, thinking it very cheeky of Aziraphale to have used him as he had, only to toss him out onto the street when he was done. He swung up out of his seat, coffee in hand and sauntered haughtily towards the door, just like the little hot house orchid he was. "I'll just go and eat out of a bin, or something. Go home to my apartment and hang out with my plants." He all but smashed his glasses back onto his face, turning back to Aziraphale with an indignant sniff. "At least _they _appreciate my company."

Aziraphale rather thought that Crowley's plants were likely to be appreciating the time that he spent otherwise not occupied with their day to day 'care'. The poor things really weren't much different to prisoners of war, shivering and shaking whilst awaiting the warden to reappear and haul one of them out for a forced extraction of information. He was hardly about to get into the logistics concerning inappropriate horticultural care, however. Crowley wasn't likely to take any of it on board. The lush and verdant growth of his plants spoke for itself, so far as he was concerned. It hardly mattered to him that the now somewhat sentient plants only pushed themselves so hard because they were acting under great duress.

"Crowley, it's not that I don't appreciate your company. It's just that I'm very worn out." Aziraphale said, thinking even as he did that Crowley looked to have every intention of leaving with his favourite coffee cup. "You've been here almost constantly since the Apocalypse. I just wonder if there isn't something you might do to help fill up your days a little? Something productive."

"Like what? Get a job, you mean?" Crowley huffed at the thought. "What the Heaven could I do that I'd be any good at, angel? Run a fucking flower shop?!"

"Well, just a casual position or something. Couple of days a week." Aziraphale picked up from one of his armchairs a copy of that days newspaper. He opened it to a section near the back that he had noticed earlier and brought it over for Crowley to take a look at. "See, here? They're looking for casual staff at the Grange Estate nursing home."

Crowley looked at Aziraphale as though he had lost his mind. "Nursing home? Are you _mental?! _Me, hanging out with a bunch of humans well past their expiration date?" He took the newspaper, ruffling its pages unnecessarily as he stared disgustedly down his nose at the advertisement. "What am I even supposed to do with them? Give 'em sponge baths? Wipe their asses? Is that how you think my time can best be spent productively, Aziraphale? Emptying out colostomy bags and spoon feeding blended boiled vegetables into a bunch of toothless, dribbling maws?"

"It was just a suggestion." Aziraphale said softly, holding up both hands to show that the meant no offense. And would much prefer the exaggerated tirade to stop then and there. "It seems to me, however, that a lot of nursing homes could make use of…" He gestured kind of vaguely towards Crowley. "… well, young men. I think the field is very overrepresented by women. They probably need some young, strapping chaps to help with the lifting and the like."

"I'm a _demon. _Not a _young, strapping chap._" Crowley spat sarcastically.

"Well, you're _in _a male type body. It's a little spindly but with your abilities I doubt you'd have any difficulty assisting with some of the more physical aspects." Aziraphale gave him a very sincere look. "Look, you've said yourself that you've been getting bored lately. What's the harm really in giving it a try?"

"You said that about the hugging and look how well that turned out." Crowley paused a moment, glanced towards the ceiling and started bending back his fingers, counting out something internally. "Speaking of which."

Aziraphale sighed, extended his arms and relinquished himself over for Crowley's set afternoon hug. He gave him a good rub on the back, perhaps a little as a means to make him the more receptive to what he was saying. It wasn't altogether fair of him, but if it was ultimately for the demon's own good, then what harm was there really?

He felt Crowley's body move in a deep, unmistakable sigh of surrender; his breath imparting warmly through Aziraphale's hair. "Oh, all right. I'll give it a go. Could be a laugh."

"Oh, my dear that is _marvellous!_" Aziraphale enthused, stepping back out of Crowley's arms and giving him a small punch to the arm. The demon just grunted, rolling his head to the side in that way he did when he was embarrassed.

"Gotta be better than sitting around with my thumb up my arse. Or learning how to play the cup song."

"I think where you're going wrong with the cup song is that I'm fairly certain you are supposed to be using a plastic cup, rather than a ceramic one, my dear." Aziraphale said, taking his favourite mug from Crowley's hand as an afterthought and then gesturing towards the coat rack. He was feeling a touch more sprightly now and thought it very wise to make use of the demon's time whilst he still held monopoly of it. "You know, I think I'm rather feeling up to dinner after all. Why don't you pick the place?"

"You sure?" Crowley asked, not quite disguising his pleasure at having won Aziraphale to his side as effortlessly as he might have liked. The corners of his lips kept hitching up traitorously.

"Well, you're going to be a working man soon. Won't be able to keep you all to myself for much longer." Aziraphale smiled, taking Crowley's cat from the rack and assisting him with pulling it on. "Might as well get in while the gettings good, as they say."

"It's only a casual position, I doubt they'll be expecting me there from dawn until dusk, seven days a week." Crowley remarked, returning the favour by assisting Aziraphale into his own coat. He slid his hands into his pockets and jutted his left elbow out towards the angel, who slid his hand neatly into the customarily offered nook and permitted himself to be lead towards the door. "Least I hope not. You'll end up leaving me for some other younger demon with more time on their hands and more patience when it comes to suplementary taxes."

Aziraphale flashed Crowley a scolding thought. "Oh, perish the thought, my dear. What other demon could possibly compare?"

If one had been looking closely enough, they might have noticed the contented little smile Crowley allowed to creep onto his face; having already safely relegated Aziraphale into the passenger seat of his Bentley. The praise should never have pleased him so much as it did but it meant more than ever these days, to hear Aziraphale affirm those things that for so long Crowley could only hope that he felt. For if such words came easy now, what else might be possible?

He tested it a little that night; right after that first inaugural tapping together of their champagne flutes. Music was playing from the piano and a singer was in attendance. Elegantly dressed couples had drifted to the sequested area in which dancing might be best enjoyed. They were all dressed quite a lot better than Crowley (well, not _better _so much as more _suited _to what was considered appropriate so far as the Ritz was concerned) but that meant little to a demon who could 'encourage' those running the restuarant to simply ignore their dress code stipulations when required. Aziraphale of course, _never _looked out of place in a setting such as this. He might have looked a few decades shy of the current trends (why he was so entranced by the fifties Crowley just _couldn't _understand) but he always looked neat and well presented and respectable.

_And lovely, _Crowley thought, watching as Aziraphale smiled with genuine, beaming warmth at the couples who had filled the modest dance space and were slowly turning in the guidance of one another's arms. _He really is the loveliest and sweetest soul on God's green earth. Even when he's laying it on thick, he manages to make it look endearing somehow._

The words were suddenly out of his mouth; quite before he'd had any thoughts as to how he might best compose them. "Do you, um... do you want to... dance?"

At least his tone had been nominal. He hadn't wanted to sound _too _hopeful, after all. He'd always begrudged himself for looking too obviously disappointed when Aziraphale had rejected his offer of a ride back in the seventies; when the angel had gone to such great strains to provide him with Holy water. Had professed so honestly that he hadn't wanted - _couldn't he'd said, couldn't _\- have him risking his life.

It was the first time he had allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that Aziraphale had reached him at long last. And he had, that much was certain. But he had reached him where a closed door still lay between them. With all the locks and chains and bells and whistles still affixed firmly in place. He went too fast, Aziraphale had said, with perhaps his eye, earnest and aware and silently wanting, pressed to the peephole. He went too fast and wanted too much and _expected _too much.

But the world was different now. Aziraphale was different now. Tremulous yes still but... so much lesser now than he had _ever _been. He spoke his own mind, for one. He was not afraid to be ever more candid about his relationship with Crowley; whatever the nature of their ineffable relationship _was. _If there was a time to start tapping his knuckle on the outside of that door, than this was it.

The response was good; mainly because Aziraphale hadn't quite taken it in the nature of which it was offered. "Oh." He had chuckled, taking a sip from his champagne and smiling at Crowley with a humourous twinkle in his eye. "I hardly think the gavotte would be appropriate for a setting such as this. Why, I might inadvertently kick someone's table and send their dessert careening off through the air!"

"Not the gavotte, angel." Crowley said, his tone now serious in spite of Aziraphale's genuine chuckles of mirth. It sobered him properly, staring back at the demon whose eyes were now visible ever so slightly above the lenses of his glasses. Getting in that good and proper hard eye contact which had so often geared things in his favour in the past. "Dancing. Like..." He gestured with his heads towards the happy, predominantly Egyptian silk draped couples. Male female apiece but then this was hardly a consideration for someone like Crowley who, naturally, had little care as to who he might offend and in what manner such offense would be occurring. "You know."

Aziraphale's smile almost came right off of his face but he foisted it up at the last moment. It was an anxious effort however and Crowley could see the nervous energy present in how the angel now poised his champagne flute between both hands; the intensity of his eye contact.

"Oh. You mean like..." He pointed back towards the couples; as though there had been some question as to who the dancing people in the room might have been. "Them."

Crowley, slumped in his seat, as always, like a dead bumble bee, jerked his head back in a little nod. His jaw was jutting off to the side and his bottom lip pouted out. It might have looked uncaring and differential but to Aziraphale, who knew him ever so well, he knew that this offhand facade was the demon caring, in fact, a little too much. He was simply doing his utmost to protect himself. By acting as though he wasn't invested in whatever answer might have been coming.

Aziraphale tittered, glancing away now, because maintaining eye contact with Crowley, was quite often a recipe for disaster. "I can't... well, I can't dance like that. I'm sure I've told you."

"No. No of course you have. Of course." Crowley nodded, understandingly and took a very commited slurp of his champagne. Aziraphale added, as a sort of sad afterthought;

"Besides... it would look rather silly, would it not? Two men, dancing together."

_You didn't suppose it was so stupid when you were doing the gavotte with a whole mess of perfect strangers_, Crowley thought, a little meanly but didn't bother with speaking such thoughts aloud. He could tell from the look on Aziraphale's face that the words which he had spoken were not, ironically, those that he seemed to have been feeling inside.

There was _want _there. Just as there had been _want _with that apple all those thousands of years ago. It was simply getting him to take that first bite which was the trick.

_**~Some beach in Italy~**_

Elsewhere, a very irrate and very soggy Man Who Never Was, dragged himself up and out of the Atlantic Ocean; swinging kelp from his person as though they were a cat of nine tails and the very air was the insurgent convict upon whose back he was dispensing a lashing.

_West. _Why _had he gone _West? _That was the LONG way around!_

He took a moment to calm himself. Chart his bearings. Made his way this time, North. He had a lot of lost time to make up for and an arse whooping which was _many _centuries overdue.

Behind him; several Fin whales had already beached themselves, seemingly without precident, upon the beach.

In the days coming, they were to find that it was they, all things considered, who were the lucky ones.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks so much for reading everybody! If you have some thoughts you would like to share, please feel free to do so. Constructive criticism is also very much welcomed, so don't be afraid to speak your mind if there is something you have noticed that you wish to point out. I'm a gentle lamb and am open to both discussion and to improving upon my writing :)

Much love to you out there my darlings! Until next time and with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~xxx ooo


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Good Omens and make no claims to any of the characters or concepts. Any relation to person's living or dead or angelic and demonic are entirely coincidental and actually... kind of bloody creepy.

**A/N:** Bit of a headcannon I've got is that when Crowley gets drunk, not only does he get more obviously eccentric and loquacious but that he also gets really, really, _really _incredibly stupid. I'm talking next level stupid. Like, missing the plainly obvious, forgetting he has powers, pretty much should not be left to his own devices, lip blistering level of stupidity. So stupid that without Aziraphale to prompt him, he would forget to sober himself up and would just remain drunk until he wakes up the next morning with a hangover.

Good Omens random factoid of the day: The doona/quilt on Warlock's bed when he was a child... a combination of red and tartan. Is this a subtle indication of both Crowley and Aziraphale's influence in his upbringing? Crowley with his red collar and Aziraphale with his tartan? Food for thought :3

* * *

**~X~**

**_February 7th - Thursday Morning._**

**_Eleven months, twenty-six days to the Apex._**

**_... Please don't ask me to count out the minutes._**

It had been on Gabriel's mind.

Which was a rare thing. He was not an Angel habitually known to stint on things that he had otherwise not been directed to stint upon.

And yet, the thought persisted.

The doubt (_may he be forgiven_) _persisted._

It had persisted to such a niggling and such an insufferable measure in fact, that it had resulted in him doing something which he had never before imagined himself ever having reason to do.

Meeting with the enemy.

Undirected.

On the sly.

After hours, of course.

They met in St. James park. Because all clandestine meetings were predestined as such to take place in St James Park. Gabriel had arrived an hour early and had taken his human body out on a jog; as much a means to calm the bodies nerves as to maintain its already staunch musculature. The outlet of serotonin and feel good hormones was a sensation he might not otherwise have cause to experience; given that they were demonstrably set apart in the Heavenly realm. He liked the feeling of the lactic acid build up in his legs; the pins and needles and the tight pull of his lungs as the spring air eased in and out of them.

Lord Beelzebub arrived late of course (_as a point of principle_) and had installed themselves on a bench near the river. They watched the ducks, grappling with the natural and near overwhelming urge to sink the errantly cheerful little bastards beneath the water in which they were so merrily puddling and might very well have done so, if not for a rather sweaty and offensively blustery sounding Gabriel dropping onto the seat beside them. Given the natural discrepancy of size between their human bodies, the angel dispensed so much of his weight and in such a dramatic fashion that it just about launched the petite demon into the river they had just been observing.

"You're late." Beelzebub stated, straightening their hat and swiping a finger beneath their nose. There was nothing seeping out, but it always _itched_. Forcing back the sores and the flies which might otherwise have hovered about their person always resulted in their having a persistent and nascent sensation not dissimilar to hay fever.

"I know. Got caught up with my thoughts. I apologize."

"It wasn't a criticism." Beelzebub said, confused as to whether or not they ought to have been annoyed or impressed by an angel being tardy. Being a practical creature however, they decided to waylay such considerations and focus on the business at hand. "What did you want to talk about?"

Gabriel sponged off his forehead with a small towel that he kept tucked into the waistband of his track pants. He felt a little dry and dehydrated. If he had been an earthbound agent such as Aziraphale, he might have known what to do to remedy this. But the idea of imbibing... of inadvertently killing even the most _minute_ of life that might exist in water, well. He would simply have to remain dry. There was nothing else for it.

"I'm not even certain why I'm doing this." He said. He almost stuttered, in fact. He looked down at his hands. "I spent longer than I care to imagine mulling it over in my head. And it's ridiculous, of course it is. But then perhaps... perhaps it... isn't?"

"If you're going to waste my time, I'd just as soon as be getting back to the office." Beelzebub grunted, not interested in playing ridiculous twisting angelic word games. They climbed up off of the bench, took a sip of their honeycomb and chocolate flavoured milkshake and turned to make their way. "I've got far too much paperwork following the demise of our Lord. Never the mind all the applications I need to process so as to find a suitable replacement. The selection criteria alone beggars belief."

"Please. I... apologize." Gabriel was standing, feeling the familial ache burn down the backs of his thighs. Something even more important searing the nodes of his celestial mind. "I'm talking in riddles, I know. I do that." He shrugged. "Honestly... I don't know why I do that."

"You always did." Beelzebub remarked, feeling what might have been a twinge of historical emotion pinch the edges of their heart. "Nothing much has changed in that regard."

"I... I don't think it would be helpful for either of us to go bringing up the past right now."

"No. Of course not. Doesn't change things, does it? Never did." They sniffed, drifted back to perch upon the bench. Sipped their drink and savoured the unfamiliar sweetness upon a tongue which was so accustomed to bitterness. "That meeting troubled you."

"As much as it did you." Gabriel sat as well, brushed back strands of sweaty salt and peppered coloured hair from his forehead. "Of course I would prefer to say that it did not-"

"Archangel. The reason we are having this meeting is clearly because you cannot openly profess these concerns to your colleagues. Do not waste my time by making excuses for your, quote unquote, 'unheavenly' behaviour and speak plainly."

There was none quite like Lord Beelzebub when it came to 'cutting through the bulls... wool'. It was actually kind of reassuring, Gabriel thought briefly. Their confidence and clarity provided a sort of structure; a set of guidelines as to how to proceed in what was indisputably an extremely confusing time. _They had always been this way_, he remembered. And then regretted having done so.

"I wondered. ...If you or any of your... cohorts might have gotten a look at one of those... contracts? Before the contingency agents signed them?"

Beelzebub gave him a bored look. "Because only a _demon_ would have sought to stick their nose in where it ought not to be stuck?" They tutted, took another sip from their drink. Glowered at the ducks which had started to gather around; apparently believing one of them to be in possession of bread or some other sort of mallard specific supplement. "I tried to catch some of the writing, but it blurred over before my eyes. I wasn't able to read it. Some sort of spell, no doubt. The others encountered the same difficulty."

"Indeed." Gabriel said, hardly surprised that such measures had been introduced. He added: "Something strange."

Beelzebub looked to him; annoyed as usual with that almost stereotyped angelic insistence on introducing drama into even the most innocuous of circumstances. Say what you will, but at least a demon would get straight to the heart of the matter. With a sharpened blade, when necessary.

"Yes?"

"Something I noticed. Written on the side of the cannister." Gabriel glanced towards Beelzebub and it was such an earnest expression of which some underlying despair permeated that it fairly voided the irritation they had been experiencing up until now. "My position is... awkward. As is Michael's. We..." He wrung his hands together. Such a typically instilled posture of angelic anxiety, it seemed. "You and I are in the same position. So far as our respective realms go. I felt... well... I don't know." He went to stand. To walk away. To withdraw on the entire, unformulated, untypically forthright exchange. "It was a bad idea. I ought not have troubled you."

Beelzebub was not one who bandied their words, nor their time, lightly. They certainly did not appreciate any of those things being wasted and they demonstrably detested being left 'hanging' quite more than anything else. It was a shame, because the milkshake had been delicious, but there had been nothing else within reach so as to throw. It fairly much stained the back of the archangel's grey jogging attire and sent brown chilled liquid all through his hair. To Gabriel, it was just about as shocking as it had been strangely soothing.

"You angel's are the most constipated pains in the arse I have ever had the displeasure of dealing with." Beelzebub said, gleaning some slight satisfaction from Gabriel's dripping, milkshake stained visage. A number of humans, idling in the park, seemed to find it particularly piquant. "Much as it pains us both to admit, we are in the same boat here. We have both been hamstrung by our contracts, we have all been blindsided and we are all in the dark as to what is supposed to happen next. Your God was once our God, do not forget. And She still wields power incontestably greater than anything we might ever aspire to." They gave the Archangel a knowing look. "I still fancy that you are a great deal more terrified by Her right now, than we are."

This was true. This was quite true. And the clarification was enough to near send the Archangel Gabriel, God's right hand, to stumbling to his knees. A sound came out of him. Something like a sob. His human face wrenched. A feeling of terrible, agonizing pain welled up in him. It was so pitiable to bear witness to, that Beelzebub went to him; took him by the arms and then lead him back to perch upon the bench. It must have been a sight; for Gabriel's body was significantly taller and broader than that of Beelzebub's; the demon being a little less than five feet in height and very petitely framed. You could see that the humans gathered in the park that morning couldn't quite think what to make of the strange pair. They were almost as odd as the bow-tie wearing, white haired dorky high school history teacher and his equally dorky failed rock star James Dean wannabe boyfriend who sometimes drifted in and out to feed the ducks and who sat awkwardly on opposite ends of the one bench, casting wistful, longing gazes at one another, ignorant to the internal screams of all regular going park persons, united in one dissonant chorus of: "_Just tell him you love him, ya big goof!_"

But I digress.

"The date on the cannister." Gabriel said at length, still dripping with milk, chocolate and honeycomb infused flavouring. Uncaring as to how, in a regular human being, the cold milk would be sending their kidneys to shuddering. "The date of which it was sent. It makes no sense." He stared at Lord Beelzebub; his once great enemy and yet, ever more intrinsically, someone who seemed more by the moment, to be a great and equally unintentional ally. "5008 BCE. _5008_."

Beelzebub hadn't noticed the label. It had been facing away from them. The date though, they did indeed understand. And shared along with Gabriel, the enormity of what that particular timeframe meant.

"5008 BCE..." They locked eyes. Something unlocked at a definitively deeper level. "The Contingency Plan was formulated thirty years prior to the revolution."

"It makes no sense." Gabriel repeated, taking the hand towel from his waistband and using it now to idly sponge the mess from about the back of his neck. "I mean... it can't... it's... impossible."

"The Contingency plan dictates that all souls shall be divided up between Heaven and Hell." Beelzebub flinched as one of their veiled flies buzzed against the metaphysical membrane which kept it sequestered. There was a sensation quite a great deal more discomforting than this however, stirring in the core of their being and it was one which they doubted would be quite as simple to ignore. "Hell didn't exist in 5008 BCE. Nor did demons."

"Nor the human race." Gabriel clarified and the look they now shared was, with the exception of their expunged agents Aziraphale and Crowley, the very first instance in history whereupon an angel and a demon shared a true understanding of what the other might be feeling. Exempting that one time when the pair of them had both been forced to share the misery of imparting the failure of the Apocalypse to their respective people. _That _was a doozy. "It was predicated on the grounds that... your people, would rebel. Which poses the question-"

"You're questioning."

"-how would the Almighty foresee that you would rebel? We were harmonious then. All of Heaven. I don't believe a one of us to have been unhappy. To have been... questioning."

"You're _doubting_." Beelzebub stated, their eyes widening.

"I'm doubting." Gabriel confirmed and looked so deeply and positively disturbed by the admission that not even the Lord of the Infernal regions could glean much satisfaction from it.

_**~February 7th - Thursday Morning~** _

_ **Crowley's Flat - Mayfair...**_

Earlier that same morning, in a junket not too far removed from where the Archangel and the Lord of Hell were gloomily seated, another demon was experiencing a major bout of doubt himself.

Doubt as to how he had ever let himself get talked into the notion of gainful employment.

Aziraphale. Aziraphale and his stupid, sense expunging _hugs_.

They were good hugs. There weren't many things nicer in all the known universe than a hug from Aziraphale.

But Crowley was started to get the sense that he was due to invite in any number of contrarily irritating and not so readily enjoyed things if he continued to let the prospect of a hug make all his decisions for him.

It felt altogether a very appropriate, and very human male thing, actually. Letting the offer of physical pleasure cloud your otherwise better judgment.

He wasn't sure whether to be amused by this.

He certainly _wasn't_ amused by having to haul his arse out of bed at a time in the morning that couldn't even be accurately labeled the '_crack_' of dawn. The stars were still out and he could hear an owl hooting somewhere off in the distance. He had in fact only managed to disinter himself, because Aziraphale, serving as metaphorical rooster, had called Crowley at 5:00am with much the same jolly aplomb and cheer in his tone he might have possessed at any other, more reasonable hour of the day. He hardly seemed at all put out by the demon's gnarly grunts and snarls and reminded him to hop in the shower, style his hair neatly and do his utmost to try and look presentable for his first day on the job. He suggested something with a tartan trim, so as to look especially competent. This was when Crowley had hung up on him.

_Fucking tartan._

The demon had in fact, once upon a time, been accustomed to getting up whilst the bats were still doing their rounds. But this was back in the days when he might have needed to ride a horse to where he needed to get to (_granted the horse didn't buck him off a dozen times along the way_). Or catch a boat. Having a car had eradicated a great deal of this early morning pish. But the nursing home was located off in suburbia and they commenced their working day at 7:00am. As it was his first shift, he was asked to be there extra early, so he could be properly inducted by the staff.

He took a shower, hoping that the hot water might wake him up some. It had the reverse effect and he found himself dosing off instead with his cheek pressed against the tile wall. Fortunately, Aziraphale had anticipated there would be some difficulties in rousing him and had gone to the extra effort of busing across town with coffee and pastries which he had purchased at their favourite café. He let himself into the apartment (_Crowley had long ago gifted him a spare set of keys_) and immediately went to the hall bathroom, where he could hear water sloshing and see heavy steam emanating from the crack below the door. He rapped his knuckle sharply against lacquer stained wood.

"Hello? You haven't fallen asleep in there have you? You do need plenty of time to get across town."

Crowley grunted awake, a grouting imprint having made its temporary home in his cheek. For fucks sake. He knew Aziraphale was a mother hen, but to actually go to all this effort just to make good and certain he was ready?

"I'm fine, I'm just... brushing my teeth." Demons and angels could of course use magic to keep their teeth and their breath smelling and looking as white and as clean as they needed. Crowley did so before disinterring his sleepy, dripping body from the shower and giving a wave of a finger to shear the water from his person. He was so tired that he wasn't thinking very clearly, however and quite forgot that he could use the very same trick to simply magic on the clothes that were hanging in the wardrobe in his room. Common sense was a privilege to be enjoyed by those beings who hadn't been rousted out of bed in the middle of the night, after all.

And so poor Aziraphale was treated to even such a shock, when Crowley simply strode right on out of the bathroom and stumped his naked body over to the bedroom to get dressed. He was in full male form as well, having chosen it seemed to make certain he would entirely blend in when he went out and interred himself in the workforce. In the off chance all of his clothes were ripped off by handsy, hormonally disinhibited retirees, or something of the sort.

"Oh, for goodness sake." Aziraphale grumbled good naturedly, setting out an egg and bacon croissont (_Crowley's go to morning imbuement_) and the styrafoam cup which contained his cappuchino on the kitchen isle. He was completely aware that he was blushing, but as to why he wasn't altogether certain.

He had never seen Crowley naked before, that much was true. They had bathed in one another's company in the past, but always in their smalls at the very least. And Crowley appeared even more shy when it came to his human body than Aziraphale. Which was precisely the reason as to why Aziraphale had shown such courtesy and respect to Crowley by being very careful to magic clothing on and off when they had swapped bodies. He had not required the use of the lavatory during their short stint in each others forms, so his experience of the demon's physique had (_until blessed moments earlier_) been ostensibly limited.  
It was a very telling sign as to just how exhausted and distracted the demon was, to have done such a thing. Likely his head was in a fuzzy, sleep deprived, potentially even hungover cloud and it had been quite enough to void his minutes only recent memory of Aziraphale actually being present in the flat in the first place.

_Could be worse_, the angel supposed, unwinding the rubber band from around the newspaper he had plucked from the stoop._ If one has to be confronted with such a thing first hour of the morning, you could do a lot worse than a slight little derriere like Crowley's._

He quite literally flinched at the thought, squeezing his eyes shut as though someone had brought a hammer down swiftly upon his fingers. _Dear Lord... why did I even look?! Can this body never be trusted to behave itself?_

Meanwhile, Crowley had, halfway through pulling on his shirt _(underpants were an afterthought_) remembered that Aziraphale was in fact in the flat and almost melted into the floor in embarrassment.

_Oh SHIT. Did he just see me swan on through completely starkers?_

He must have done. Crowley had used the main bathroom this morning (_the fact that his bedroom had an ensuite had gone out the window right along with common sense_) and his room was located right across the hall from it.

He reassured himself with the thought that perhaps Aziraphale had been looking in the other direction. Or more the likely had his eyes shut, absorbed in the consumption of whatever particular pastry he was currently hoeing into.

Satisfied that he hadn't in fact grossly humiliated himself, Crowley finished dressing; a job which he never saw fit to do poorly, whipped a hand about his head to style his hair and picked up his sunglasses. He didn't put them on yet; he was still inside after all and the lenses were dark, which did not mesh well with the fact that it was still all but night-time on the outside. He loped into the kitchen with all the energy and verve of a mid-term university student, dropping himself heavily onto one of his designer stools and gesturing vaguely towards his mouth.

"Too tired to pick up food. Feed me."

"I'm not feeding you." Aziraphale tutted, pushing the plate closer as some sort of minor incentive and taking up Crowley's spare hand from the counter. He prized apart a set of fingers which felt as though they had been taken to by rigor mortis and managed to install them about the styrafoam cup. "Drink your coffee. And what-" He made a sound; sort of a mixture of a groan and a barely stifled snicker. "- what on earth have you gone and done with your hair?"

"Just the usual." Crowley grumbled, managing to drag the cup up to his lips and sip from the small hole in the lid. He felt Aziraphale's fingers pet to his hair; quite a great deal higher than they ought to have done.

"You've given yourself a beehive hairdo! Why, you look just like a member of the Ronette's!" Aziraphale laughed, glancing a finger through the air and returning Crowley's hair to the style he currently kept. He still felt an overwhelming need to take a comb to it. "Well, it's a good thing that I was here then. Can you imagine going in to work on your first day looking like that?"

"I would have noticed eventually. Wouldn't have been able to get in the car, for starters." Crowley slurped in some more coffee, took a rather gargantuan bite from his croissont. He was starting to feel a bit more regular now, though his head still had a nasty temporal ache. "Thanks for bringing breakfast over."

"Oh please. I'm quite sure I got all the thanks I ever needed, watching you cross the hallway in the altogether." Aziraphale teased, scrunching up his nose. Crowley's eyes just about fell out of his head and he did something which Aziraphale was quite certain he had never before seen. He blushed. "There's no need to be embarrassed. You're obviously tired. These things happen."

"You will forget that it ever happened if you know what's good for you, angel." Crowley attempted to threaten. Aziraphale, of course, felt not the least bit threatened.

"Rather hard to forget."

"Hey. You don't see me bringing up the fact that I saw you naked and using it as verbal ammunition."

Aziraphale was quite reasonably shocked by this. "When on earth did you ever have cause to see me naked?"

"I was in your body for over twenty-four hours. What, you really think that in all that time I _wouldn't_ have seen you naked?"

"I never looked at _your_ body!"

"Well I had to wash _yours_! Yours sweats more than my does!"

Now Aziraphale rather felt like melting away to nothing. He looked so intensely embarrassed and self-conscious that Crowley actually took mercy on him for it.

"There's not like you had anything to worry about. I didn't parade it around for all and sundry to see. Didn't do anything untoward with it. Just washed and went. _Didn't let the water run cold, you know what I mean_?"

"Yes, but you saw me... saw, _it_ rather... naked." Aziraphale said in a very shy, vulnerable voice. He looked almost on the verge of crying. The very idea of Crowley... handling his body... Of course he trusted him. He'd have to have done in order to have effected the change in the first place but still... The thought of Crowley's... his hands... his hands which Crowley had been controlling. _Touching_. It just... "I mean... what must you _think_?"

Crowley was confused by this. "Of what? It's just a body! There's nothing wrong with it! It's a bit softer than some bodies out there true, but that's nothing to be embarrassed about!"

"But it's overweight." _Those hands scrubbing with a bar of lavender scented soap. Under hot water; likely as close to broiling point as the flesh would permit. A body so much different to what Crowley must have been accustomed. The round stomach. A bottom quite a great deal wider than his own. All the... ins and outs and..._

"Who cares?! You like food; big whoop! I found it a very comfortable ride, actually. Nice and soft and warm. You don't got all the bones poking out like I do."

"You're not bony." Aziraphale said firmly, wondering even as he did if his body being referred to as a 'comfortable ride' was inappropriate or not. It tickled him as sounding just slightly 'off' for some reason. "You are _lean_. And you have wonderful cheekbones. Pon my word, you can't even see mine."

Crowley's body had been light and breezy. His feet just about swam above the ground when he walked. He had noticed quite a few sets of eyes upon him when he'd been out and about. Admiring. There were certain subsets of humans who clearly enjoyed and appreciated Crowley's appearance. He hadn't minded the attention in the least. He wondered if Crowley noticed quite as much as he had?

"But you have such cute cheeks." Crowley cooed, leaning over and pinching his fingers up under Aziraphale's jaw, pressing his thumb and fingers into the angel's round cheeks. He got his hand slapped for his efforts. "Don't stress on it, angel. They're just bodies. Wrapping paper at the end of the day. Or more like a smooth car which carries our souls around."

"Speaking of carrying our souls around, you had best carry yours over to the Grange. Wouldn't want to be running late on your first day."

"True that." Crowley jammed the half eaten croissant back into the bag whence it came, resolving to eat the rest of it if he had a break. He grabbed the bag, his Styrofoam cup and snapped his fingers so as to whip the folder of required paperwork directly into his waiting hand. Seeing that his hands were now full, Aziraphale plucked up the Bentley's keys, packed up his pastry box and took the elevator down with Crowley to the ground floor. They walked to where the Bentley was parked and Aziraphale opened it for him. He stood, beaming effervescently, eyes brimming over with tears as Crowley slid his various odds and ends onto the far side of the seat. He turned before climbing in himself and groaned to see the soppy look on the angel's face.

"Oh, what? Are you seriously _crying_, right now?"

"I'm sorry." Aziraphale said, taking a handerchief from his inside pocket and using it to dab delicately at the corners of his eyes. He did nothing whatsoever to contain the truly chuffed smile which had stolen over the lower half of his face. "I'm just..." His shoulders rose and fell with the ever so pleased sigh he emitted. "I'm just so... _proud_ of you."

Crowley tilted his head back, groaning his disgust to the Heavens. All the better with which to hide the embarrassment he so often experienced whenever Aziraphale expressed approval.

"Oh for fucks sake, _don't_ be proud of me. Oh that stupid face, _I can't stand it_. It's like you're radiating pure sugar, I can feel all my teeth rotting, _stop_..."

"It's all right, I'll be getting along now, I don't want to make you late after all." He made to leave but right before doing so, set the box of pastries upon the curb and opened up his arms to the demon. "It's going to be a long day. So if you need your hugging fix, you had best get in whilst the getting's good."

Crowley sputtered air through his lips, as though it were Aziraphale who was being placated in this situation rather than he himself. "Yeah, all right. Let's make it quick though. Any more of this fluff and we'll become a fire hazard."

He shut the car door and made a big show of putting his own arms out and all but slinging them around Aziraphale with the sort of long limbered irascibility of those strange puppet things you see outside auto dealers. Aziraphale was, of course, far the more tender and unashamed and wrapped his arms tight and firm about Crowley's back, giving him a most loving, most genuine embrace. He sank into it even further himself, aware that changes were going to be occurring and feeling ever more intensely the love that he held in immeasurable spades for the demon. A love which far transgressed that of natural, angelic love. A love he could never quite reconcile and yet found equally as impossible to turn away from.

"You're going to be _wonderful_, my dear." He whispered, turning his face in towards Crowley's cheek and dispensing a kiss against the rise of it. The demon's body stiffened in response and Aziraphale, convinced he had made a terrible error in judgment, pulled away and yanked up the box of pastries from the sidewalk. "Right. Well. I'll be off. Have a good day and all. Ta-ta!"

He took off in quite as much of a rush as Crowley had ever seen him. Which was disappointing to the demon, who had been surprised by the kiss but in the most wonderful way in which a person might ever be surprised.

That was, of course, an angel for you, though. They gave in but an inch to their feelings and then emotionally castrated themselves for it. No surprises there. An angel was more spooked by the conscious admission of their desires then they were anything else in existence. Crowley fancied that Aziraphale was centuries more terrified of giving in to himself than he had ever been in the moments when the Lord of all Darkness rose up out of Hell, with every intention of cleaving the still living flesh from their bodies.

_So skittish._

But then... was he really any better himself?

Crowley had only very recently started to permit himself the wiggle room in which to wonder whether he and Aziraphale might potentially deepen their relationship. Transgress it further, to encompass something... _more_. Whatever _more_ that form might take.

Crowley rather liked change. Change was, after all, how the world had moved on from such infernal blights as the god damned fourteenth century. It paved the way for improvement. Opened up new avenues to explore. Cars and aeroplanes and modern music. Anti-perspirant. Toilet paper. Never mind what the clever human beings were doing with wine these days. So very much to choose from; so many different variety's, names and colours. Grapes and years and techniques and blends. And Gin, of all things - _gin!_ He never would have thought Gin had many places in which to grow and expand but the people of earth never quite ceased to amaze with their ingenuity. These were all good things.

The kiss had been a good thing.

It had been his first, come to think of it.

Human's kissed. Angel's kissed, even. A kiss was an act of love; far more reverential when dispensed by angel's, of course. With humans, it might mean any number of other things. The interpretations were as wide and as varying as much anything was when it came to the complex and incontestable human race.

Demon's didn't kiss. Though they understood love (_for it was an experience quite as good as it was bad, at times_) they did not kiss. If possessed by a moment of weakness and attribution of affection for one of their kind, they might have given a loving bite. Every so often it might have been well received. Often times it resulted in much the same manner as when two funnel web spiders came across one another in the wild and then it was a simple matter of trying to find adequate furniture to shield yourself with until the bodily vitae stopped slapping against the walls.

Crowley had never been kissed before. Not even during his time as an angel. He'd never experienced feelings of love strong enough to transcend into that need to ascribe physical form in relaying it. Not until he had met Aziraphale, of course. And the desire then, was hampered by his transformative plunge through the destructive sulphur of Hell; which dampened so much of what had been a natural and effervescent lightness.

But he had felt it all the same. Had felt it far longer and with such depth of intensity it sometimes made him ache inside.

The need to express what he felt in ways that extended beyond mere words and glances. Both were fine and a good thing in their own right, of course. Sometimes, he simply wanted... _needed_ more.

The kiss he had left to Aziraphale's knuckle, a mere few weeks earlier... that had been the first time he had kissed someone himself. Exempting the crank of the Bentley when, pre-Armage-Don't-even-bother it had blown up after being driven through Hell fire and invariably held together only by the stubborn glue of Crowley's pig-headed-head. But the first non-inanimate object, for certain.

Exempting perhaps the time that he had fairly much nibbled the sides of Aziraphale's neck so as to embarrass him in front of the kebab shop owner. But that didn't really count. Not really. The intention had been demonstrably different. He had meant only to have his fun at the angels expense. It did not come from a genuine want and or need to cherish Aziraphale, not like it had when he had placed that quick, but ever so meaningful kiss to his hand.

The kiss was good. Even if Aziraphale had panicked and run away as though his coattails were aflame, it was still a _good thing_. Crowley had never much liked good things in the past. But they were quite all right if they were happening to him, he decided.

Angel's kissed out of love. Pure, undiluted, unfiltered love. It meant, even if Aziraphale had difficulties with conveying it, that he most certainly_ loved_ Crowley.  
And that was quite enough clarification to make one, until now inexorably sleepy and grumpy demon, quite as chipper as he could ever be expected to be at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

_Today,_ he thought and grinned for the curse he was about to make; a curse which might very well have made all the collective upper lips of Hell curl in his direction. _Is going to be a _damned_ good day._

**~X~**

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**A/N: **Thanks always to everyone who is reading and following the story. Feel free to do more of the same, if you feel I have earned it, or even leave a review or a thought. And then if you like, jump on over to the next chapter!

As always and with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER: **Sponsor me on and you will recieve all my exclusive NSFW content for the low, low price of only $85.95 per month... Nah, I kid ;) Any and all NSFW stuff I write is all yours, all free, non-refundable.

Also, I don't own Good Omens. Peace!

**A/N: **On a random note, just watched the movie _Truth or Dare _and couldn't help but think that if Crowley was the demon who possessed the game, what sorts of Truth's and Dares would our favourite little dork ask the protagonists. "I pick truth." "Okay, uh... who was the first person... you had a, crush on?" "I'm not telling you that." "Okay. Cool. I respect your decision. Free will and all that. ... How about you? Truth or dare?" "Dare." "Whoa, okay... this is a tricky one... um... eat a taco without turning your head sideways?"

It would have very quickly gone from a scary movie, to a comedy of errors before you could even blink. Crowley's just too well-meaning and naïve to get nasty with things.

As usual, my dears, thank you for everyone who is reading and following along. If you would care to partake of the following update, I will be more than happy to join you on the flip side!

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**~X~**

_**February 7th - 7:00am**_

**_The Grange Estate Nursing Home - London, Suburbia_**

After a drive punctuated by heavy commuter traffic _(tolerated for the most part by contrarily pleasant thoughts)_ Crowley at long last rocked up to the Grange Estate nursing home for his first casual shift. Ahead of time, which might have been a point of contention in the days in which Hell was keeping score _(every little bit had helped, after all_) and something of which he now felt all the prouder for having achieved. Doing well in this regard was likely to have made Aziraphale proud in turn and this was quite the only opinion of which he truly gave a fuck about these days.

He went one better in fact, feeling it rather poor form to park in a handicap spot _(such as he might have done in not so distant days past)_ and actually went to the effort of driving into the visitors parking lot. From there, he sauntered his way over to the front office where he was to meet with the on site team leader Rita.

Rita was quite everything Crowley had expected the manager of a nursing home to be; homely, brusque and more than likely to be returning home to the company of several different coloured cats at the end of her shift. She took one look at Crowley, sunglasses still on whilst indoors, hip cocked at a jaunty angle, black leather pants crowned by a belt in the shape of a snake and carefully coifed so as to look effortlessly messy _(likely dyed_) dark red hair and concluded that he was 1.) Still trapped in the 90's and 2.) Most probably gay.

Both things which suited her down to the ground. She was a fan of 90's music herself _(God bless Westlife)_ and gay men were a much safer bet whence working with some of the older and more vulnerable women they had in residence. And she could care less for his fashion sense, given that there was a set uniform, which she handed over to him in an employee storage area fringed with already running washers and dryers and stinking faintly of urine.

The two things she was not on board with, however, was the facial tattoo; an artistic rendering of a coiled snake situated just offside of his right temple _(which she could do nothing about_) and the sunglasses, _(which she most certainly _could.) She had tolerated his wearing them during his job interview some days earlier but hadn't expected them to make a continued appearance following his actually landing of the role.

"Prescription." Crowley had explained, staring down at the crinkly white pants and shirt he was expected to wear and wondering how he might make them look cooler. "Got a medical condition. Sensitive to light. Can't see a damn thing without them."

Rita might have wondered why Crowley wouldn't simply get a pair of normal glasses with transition lenses but decided to let it go. A pair of willing _(how little she knew)_ hands was not worth questioning. "Right. Well, I'll be pairing you up today with one of our senior workers, Jeanie. She's been here five years, knows her stuff. She's on the verge of having a baby, which is why we're hiring at the moment. Need to train some other staff up to cover her hours."

"Wahoo." Crowley said, unenthusiastically, holding the pants and shirt up against the line of his body and staring down at them. Maybe a chain on the trouser loop. Black wrist bands.

"After you get changed, come and meet me in the front office and I'll introduce you to the rest of the team. You have your lifting certificate there, I assume?"

"You assume correctly." Crowley handed over a manila folder that had, amongst other various credentials he'd either genuinely acquired or maliciously fabricated, a certificate which allowed him to assist with physically assisting clients with getting out of bed, into cars, wheelchairs, etc. Rita took the folder, gave it a perfunctory glance before sliding it under her arm.

"Make sure and not dawdle. There's plenty of work needs doing first thing in the morning. We expect you to keep up."

She turned on her heel and left Crowley to his own devices. He smiled, his respect for the woman going up a notch. At least she wasn't pretending that she was going to like him. And such authenticity of character went a long way, so far as Crowley was concerned. Saved a lot of time at days end.

He dressed in the awful white shirt and trouser combination, storing his own clothes in an untidy bundle on the benchtop. _(He might have just waved a hand in the past and magicked himself in an out of clothing but he still remained a little concerned regards the potential expiration of his powers)_. He hooked some shoe protectors over his boots, making good and certain that as much of the expensive material as possible was covered._ (Shoes were the only clothing article which he actually went to the effort of purchasing. Everything else he copied and then miracled into existence. This was going to have to change, if he meant to be a little more frugal concerning the aforementioned powers)._

He took a moment to look himself over in the full length mirror hanging on the back of the door. Wow. Now that was some next level awful right there. What he might have called a 'fuck free zone'. If he fucked, that is.

Crowley took his phone out from his jacket pocket. He hooked his thumb into the waistband of his crunchy trousers, jutted out his hip and flashed an unimpressed look towards his reflection.

An explanation first and foremost as to what he was doing: Following the Armag-Don't even bother, Crowley had purchased for Aziraphale a smart phone. Their lives were about to get all the more unpredictable, especially given that Heaven and Hell definitely had them on their shit list and he thought it important that they were able to keep in contact with one another no matter where they might be.

He'd spent many a not so happy hour attempting to teach Aziraphale how to use the phone, something of which the angel took to like an armadillo to water; sinking spectacularly at every turn. After many drunken evenings all but hammering it in, Crowley had managed to teach Aziraphale how to call someone, check his voice mail and to text. This opened up a veritable world of opportunity so far as the demon was concerned. Moments such as this, for example.

He took a selfie, making certain that his eyes could be seen above the tops of his glasses. He sent it to Aziraphale, along with the caption: **_Look what you've driven me to. Hope you're happy._**

Aziraphale rarely looked at his phone during the day; he did after all have the land line in his shop. Plus, he might still very well be nursing embarrassment from his earlier concession of affection and simply trying to avoid reminding himself of it in any way possible. As such, Crowley was quite surprised to receive a message back almost immediately. It read:

**_You look very smart, dear! Best of luck on your first day!_ **

Crowley replied:** _I look like I'm being tethered for termites. This place smells like Hastur. I hate you :(_**

The phone pinged almost immediately. Crowley had to smile at the response.** _Oh, you don't._** A second later and another message came through.**_ Now stop messaging and get to working. I'm looking forward to hearing all about it at dinner time!_ **Followed up by what was unmistakably, an egg plant emoji.

Crowley's brow lifted smartly into the lines of his forehead. Eggplant emoji? Well that didn't make a lick of sense. Just what the Heaven was Aziraphale suggesting he wanted to have for dinner? It couldn't actually be... what the eggplant emoji actually meant, of course. He sent back a message.

_**You don't know what the eggplant means, do you?** _

The phone dinged a second later. _**Well, of course! It means food :)**_

Poor darling ever so innocent Principality. Thank whoever that Crowley was the only one to whom Aziraphale was sending text messages, or else this might have very quickly dissolved into many an awkward situation.

_**I'll explain it at dinner, angel. Have fun today. Try not to miss me too much x** _

He had added the x before he had even thought about it and had sent the message with a reflexive thumb before he'd been able to amend it. _Dammit... got kissing on the brain, clearly._

Knowing Aziraphale, he likely would not equate the x with what it actually meant. He would probably think it was a generic sign off of some sort. Sure enough, the return message established precisely that:

_**I shall see you tonight, my dear x** _

Aw. Well, that was a little bit cute. Smiling, Crowley pocketed his phone and wallet, took one more tired glance at himself in the mirror and, with a disparate shake of his head, made his crinkly-crunkly way towards where he knew the office to be.

Rita introduced him to all the members of the five strong day team. (_Of which he was the only male-type creature present, just as Aziraphale had surmised)_. The girl he was to be paired with, Jeanie, was likely just shy of her mid thirties, heavily pregnant _(Baby number one_) and had the verve and annoying energy of someone much younger, who_ (if she hadn't been pregnant)_ would be more the likely to have something white and crystalized suspended from their nostril hairs. Her face lit up when Crowley was introduced to her and she went towards him, arms out in not so much an offer of a hug, but a ransom demand.

"Oh, but he_ is_ a spunky one, innin'he?" She remarked, hooking her arms about Crowley's shoulders and just about splintering his spine as she thrashed him from side to side. Hugs, Crowley had decided, were quite the best when they were dispensed by the soft and cosy delights of Aziraphale and not by the baby bedecked likes of random women. "That'll cheer the old girls up, nothing surer!"

Following his physical assault, Rita went ahead and explained their duties and what Crowley might have expected to encounter whilst undertaking them. At the end of her explanation, Crowley felt rather as though he _were_ in fact completing the duties of an undertaker. It would have likely been less disgusting than what was in store for him on this: day dot.

The staff were required to use gloves and to be mindful of contact with fluids. Some of the residents had dementia and could be, as Jeanie so tactfully explained, 'difficult' to work with on account of it. One or two were known to spit, if the mood took them and some might even bite or take a swing. Crowley got to experience all of this with one of the older chaps; a man in his advanced seventies known as Boris, who did in fact attempt to take a chunk out of Crowley's arm as they were assisting him in sitting up in bed to take morning medication. Crowley was tempted to bite back, but figured that this was hardly in the spirit of the human care profession. _(Or so he had gleaned, at least)._

It was impressive at all that the man had maintained enough of his original teeth with which to even deliver a bite, so he took a positive in that. Felt ever the more relieved for having his glasses on when Boris hocked up a lovely phlegm riddled gorbie right into what otherwise might have been his left eye. He then tried to smack the Pill-bob containing his morning tablets out of Crowley's hand and upset the full glass of water the demon had been attempting to pass to him. Jeanie observed, taking mental notes most likely as to how he was dealing with the situation. (_The answer was _barely_ and _poorly). Crowley, being the type who might have under different circumstances have indulged his temper, let just the slightest hint of it dribble out, as opposed to the deluge he might otherwise have unleased. He had promised Aziraphale after all, that he would give it his very best try. And headbutting a senior citizen hardly seemed in the spirit of putting ones best foot forward.

"Okay. Listen up, ya grumpy old sod." He finally said, standing just out of biting, spitting and scratching distance; pill bob in one hand, glass of water in the other and mucus riddled spit sliding down the lens of his glasses. "No one likes getting out of bed in the morning. No one likes some chirpy upstarts coming into their bedroom and making 'em take tablets that probably taste funny and give horrible cotton mouth. As for someone else washing and cleaning you, I can't see what the big whoop is about. _I'd_ prefer someone else to bathe me of a morning. Give me a chance to wake up properly. But how's about we make a deal: You take the damn tablets without any of the spitting, mauling and kicking and screaming carry on we've seen thus far, we get you into the shower and dressed for the day and then we wheel you on out for breakfast and leave you alone a while. Let you get on with chatting up some of the old birds. Sound good?"

If Crowley thought that reasoning with a gentleman in the advanced stages of dementia was likely to result in a positive outcome for both parties, he was badly mistaken. Boris subsequently responded to the proposed agreement with two words; one of which was 'off' and then flipped himself back over onto his side and hurled the blankets around himself in a cacoon so tight, it would have put an ancient Egyptian mortician to shame. Crowley was overcome with the near incontestable desire to grab the exposed corner of the blanket and forcefully spin the old fart out of his bindings.

"Right. Well. You know what? I'm just going to eat all of this medication myself." Crowley then made a big show out of pretending to take the medication out of the pill bob and placing it into his mouth. "Mmm. Yummy seroquel. Yum yum yummy bisoprolol fumarate. Oh, you would have loved this mirtazapine. Going to do me the world of good, tell you that. And oh, what's this? Something to stop your heart exploding in your chest? Might have come in handy, mightn't it?! Too bad, straight on down my gullet, mmhh-mmhh-mmhh!"

Jeanie, who had until now, been enjoying the display thoroughly, chose at this point to cease her almost nearly smothered guffaws into the corner and show Crowley how to go about enticing Boris into taking his medication before they themselves were tempted to do so on his behalf.

She demonstrated how, when Boris was being difficult, they would flick the lights a couple of times and turn his television up, which would annoy him enough that he would sit up under his own steam. Once having done so, the idea was to talk to him for around five minutes, by which point he would have woken up some and would be less grumpy and more willing to take his medication. After this, he was far more amenable to being escorted into the shower for a wash and took only one half-hearted swat at Crowley during the process.

The next few clients were indisputably much less challenging so far as behaviours were concerned. Quite a few of them Crowley actually managed to summon genuine empathy for; especially one woman whom he assisted in lifting from the bed that she had wet during the night (_on account of an improperly fitted continence pad_) and who put her arms about his neck in such a trusting and somehow helpless manner that it wrought a little tickle to his tear ducts. _(Not that he would ever have let anyone know that such a thing had moved him. It's where the glasses came in especially handy)._

_They're so bloody helpless_, he thought, assisting with showering one of the very most feeble of the men in the wing that he and Jeanie had been assigned. He found himself moving with much more gentility than his usual broad gestures had previously permitted; lifting frail arms carefully so as to aim the nozzle of the shower hose up underneath them. _They need other humans just to help them continue living. Anyone could just walk in and hurt them and they couldn't do a lick to stop them._

_How ironic that they were being cared for by a demon,_ Crowley thought and then, in retrospect, considered the alternative. Lot worse human beings in the world than him, ironically enough. Even when he felt the slightest glimmer of historical temptation to perhaps kick the leg of a walking cane or indeed, cork in a mouthful of some of those medications (_just to see what would happen_) he resisted. The demonic instincts were always present, always lingering below the surface but he had no further need to attend to them. Hell wasn't keeping score of his output anymore, after all. It was more his promise to Aziraphale which compelled him to keep forging ahead on the straight and narrow. Not to mention an indisputably stubborn mindset, which would not permit him to fail at doing something. If anything, he wanted to prove to the angel that he could and would persevere, in spite of what resistance (_and in what disgusting bacteria riddled form_) he encountered. Even the arse pinching he received at the palsied hands of some of the more virile and uninhibited female residents, one of whom seemed to think he was the living epitome of a young Elvis Presley and looked quite as though she were prepared to have her wicked way with him; arthritis be damned.

After having showered, dressed and relocating the clients in their first assigned wing, Crowley was to assist Jeanie in getting up some of the older men and women in what they referred to as Wing C. This was where most of the residents who had difficulty with mobility were situated. As Jeanie led him along to the select wing, Crowley found himself feeling just the slightest bit apprehensive. Age was something which would never grace him, being a demon of course, but he did in fact find it saddening and disturbing to see humans bodies wearing out whilst their souls remained trapped inside, quite likely the same as they had always been. He supposed the humans working in the Grange must have felt upset by the nature of their challenging work at times. Perhaps more so. There was a vulnerability in that; being present in the face of your own mortality.

Crowley quickly acquired a favourite amongst the more mobility impaired clients; a lovely old dear named Sylvia, who was in increased stages of dementia and didn't_ (and likely couldn't)_ give two shits as to whether he had feelings or not and promptly gifted him the charming nickname of _'FAGGOT!_' Which she so intrinsically linked with such helpful advice as '_FUCK OFF! FAGGOT!_' and _'DON'T TOUCH ME! FAGGOT!_'

Crowley thought she was absolutely wonderful and made good and certain to put that little extra 'oomph' into the swing of his hips as he moved around her room; just so as to provide her with some additional ammunition. She seemed to appreciate this and Crowley felt a very strange, yet equally pleasurable sensation; that of having made someone's day just that little bit brighter. An extraordinarily strange thing for a demon to take pride in, but hey. He was never much of a demon to begin with, most could argue.

Another of Crowley's tasks was to assist with the washing of the male residents. Not the females, obviously, though he did support Jeanie with holding one or two up whilst showering. None of this concerned him, or even made much of an impact, really. He'd had many a year to aclimatize himself to the human form. It was always a little startling to witness the effects of aging, however. Not to mention those individuals that might have lost limbs due to illness or injury and one client in particular, who had had most of his bowels and stomach removed and was dependent on a colostomy bag. All of this, rather than tiring Crowley out _(or worse, boring him)_ resulted in the slightest feeling of pain setting up shop in the cage of his chest._ I can fix my body_, he thought, stepping through the process of removing the colostomy bag and reaffixing a new one. Glancing ever so often into the sad eyes of the human that they were fairly much treating with the same regard as they might have done a plastic doll that had been manufactured on the cheap in some sweatshop in Taiwan. _You can't. You can't do anything but let other humans, who are paid to be here, do these things that are so deeply personal, so despairingly intimate and ever so sad, on your behalf._

A memory. Of a very bright, very good and very decent young man. Of nails being driven down and hard and deep. An agonizing death. An unfair death.

So much of humanity was unfair.

Would it have been less unfair, he wondered, if he had not tempted the Woman to bite the apple?

He asked Jeanie if he might finish the job by himself.

Least he could do.

Eventually, all of the residents had been assisted with making their way to the dining room for breakfast. Crowley was then tasked with helping to serve up the food and, finding it rather wanting _(having sampled a spoonful himself, of course_) cast a hand across each plate so as to improve the taste. The richness and the quality. So that each mouthful might indeed have tasted as though it had come direct from the Ritz itself. He thought Aziraphale might have been especially pleased this one.

He was required to support a number of the residents with eating and was especially keen to spoon feed Sylvia, who attempted to hurl her tray at him as he approached the table. Eventually, after having cleaned up and stacked plates in the dishwasher, sponged off some food stained jumpers and wiped off some faces, Crowley helped by placing a few loads of dirtied linen in the washing machines and was then advised that he and some of the other workers could take a quick break.

They made tea and coffee in the staff room and Jeanie showed him the little outdoor deck area, just off of the main office, where the staff who were smokers tended to congregate. Crowley made himself at home on top of the bench they had wedged into the modest space; nibbling on his leftover croissant from breakfast, sipping from his coffee and mentally rounded off as to how much longer he was going to have to stick it out. He checked his watch; only two hours into what he had been told was a nine hour shift. Almighty fucking _dammit_.

"That's a hell of a watch." One of the other workers _(Alice, he recalled_) remarked, lighting up a cigarette and dropping heavily down onto the door stoop. Crowley smiled, thinking this altogether much too appropriate an appraisal. The watch was custom made and relayed every time zone of the world and the time in a place that was not in fact, of the human world. He had switched this feature off some months ago; having not but a care as to how time might have been passing in that putrescent little shithole.

"That's one way of looking at it." His phone started blurting a cheery tune from the pocket of his crinkly pants and he reached in to yank it out. It was Aziraphale, of course. Who else would be calling but Aziraphale? He tapped the answer signal on the screen and brought the phone up to his ear. "What?"

Aziraphale made a distinctive 'hmph' sound from the other end. "Well that's a charming way to answer your phone."

"I'm working remember? If you wanted me around to talk to, you shouldn't have forced me into manual labour."

"I hardly _forced_ you, I just offered some sound advice which you were clever enough to take. How is it going, by the way? Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Yeah... I'm living the fucking dream." Crowley wasn't truly annoyed with Aziraphale for his situation. He had after all done much worse for people he liked much less in the past. That hardly meant that he was in the spirit of letting someone off of the hook, however. "Is that why you called? Just to gloat?"

"Hardly gloating." Azirphale's couldn't sound more warm and chipper if he tried. Which, knowing him as Crowley did, meant that he was quite obviously gloating. "I also wanted to remind you about that bottle of 1977 Graham you promised you would pick up for me after you finished your shift."

Crowley groaned, rolling his eyes back so far in his head he was quite surprised they didn't remain lodged there. "I know, angel. You reminded me last night, remember? Three times!"

"Well, I wasn't sure you would remember."

"I'm not gonna forget! If you're so damn worried about the bottle, there's nothing to stop _you_ from catching a cab to the warehouse, picking it up yourself."

"Well... no. No, of course not." And now Aziraphale simply sounded so genuinely chastised and resigned and Crowley could see in his minds eye those soft lashes hemming about the edges of those sad little green peepers as he most likely tugged distractedly at his pocket fob. "It's just that... well you _did_ offer. I don't want to be an inconvenience, of course..."

Crowley went to water with much greater propensity than he had ever done in the past. All that disconnect from Hell really was making him soft. "It's fine. Just have a little trust, yeah? I won't forget."

"Ah. Well, good." Crowley could hear the soft glow in Aziraphale's voice. It took so little really, to make him happy. "I'll see you tonight after you finish your shift. Have a lovely rest of the day, dear."

"Yeah. You too. Enjoy your jacket dusting." Crowley took the phone away from his ear and tapped the red symbol to disconnect the call. Alice, cigarette poised just by the corner of her lips, flashed him a knowing smile.

"Girlfriend giving you jack?"

Crowley gave a humourless scoff as he tucked his phone back into his pants pocket. "Close enough." And because Alice continued to look at him in that nosy way humans were so partial to, added: "My friend. Alex."

Because Aziraphale had refused to assign a human name to himself _(apart form referring to himself as Mr. A. _) Crowley had, during one drunken evening of proper contemplations, decided that he would gift him the honorific of Alexander Fell_ (Alex for short)_ because it just seemed to_ flow_. Not quite so stylishly as Anthony J. Crowley, but not everyone could be expected to uphold such prodigious standards.

Alice gave Crowley a funny sort of look, flicking ash off to the side before realinging the filter with the edge of her maroon lipstick. "You must be very good friends if you refer to him as _'angel.'"_

Ah. Crowley had been a bit remiss with this one. He had forgotten that humans often used the word 'angel' as a term of endearment. Which of course he did so as well, though his was more as a sort of interchangeable 'double entendre' but the context with humans seemed to almost be entirely that of the romantic persuasion.

He might have navigated his way around the conversation quite as easily as he always did _(if anything he was a profligate bullshit artist_) but then he had a stray thought as to how Aziraphale might react if he were, for whatever the reason, to run into Crowley's new workmates and be greeted as the demons would be 'boyfriend'. The image of Aziraphale's round little face lighting up in a mixture of confusion, embarrassment and annoyance was such an utterly sublime one that Crowley knew right away that he needed to make this happen.  
"My... _special_ friend." Crowley intoned, giving a slight smile in return that most anyone knew how to interpret. Alice for her part, looked delighted. As did Jeanie, who was standing just out of range of the cigarette smoke but who risked drifting closer just so as to be involved in the conversation.

"Oh, _seriously._ You got no idea how relieved I am! I mean, the whole time I've been here I mean, I'm like the _only_ one who's gay!" And, because Crowley chanced a glance towards her belly, added: "My partner's a woman. I know, seems a bit weird but..."

"Not weird." Crowley said, quite honestly. The new world was a wonderful thing, for how it did, in its way, accustomize itself to practices and desires and wants and needs that were as historical as were the pyramids. And he was a progressive being; always keen to have his eyes pinned forwards, to adopt and adapt to both creativity, adaptability and acceptance all round. "You have a donor?"

"Yeah." She nodded, glancing a hand over her very round stomach. From the slight peak at the base of her shirt, Crowley could see that her navel had distended. She was close to popping, all right.

"Your egg, or hers?" He had always been curious. Sometimes Aziraphale chastised him for it. Crowley could hardly see it as a sin, however. Never had. Part of the problem, no doubt.

"Her egg. My womb. Donors sperm." She glanced towards Crowley, somewhat tepidly and seemed to relax when she saw nothing but complete and undivided accommodation in return. "God... seriously you have _no_ idea what it's like to have someone in the workplace, no offense Alice-" He colleague waved a hand to show that no such offense had been taken. "- who can kind of get what it's like to be... you know."

This was a difficult one for Crowley to answer honestly. (_Not that honesty was really in his repertoire, but all the same._) Because how exactly was he supposed to commiserate? To empathize? How could he explain to this enthusiastic young woman, who had incorrectly predicted that she had encountered an ally in her otherwise fundamentally hetero-dominated workplace that he wasn't in fact gay?

He wasn't straight for that matter either. He was a supernatural creature from the foullest depths of Hell, who assigned physical aspects of gender only when it really suited him to do so and experienced attraction exclusively in relegation to another supernatural creature.

If anything, he supposed the only term what might actually apply to him was _Azirasexual_. He was holistically and exclusively drawn to Aziraphale; to the exclusion of most everyone else in the... well, universe, really. Sure he could minimalistically appreciate the company of humans; where required. Never for much longer than was absolutely necessary. As for his once fellow demons and the winged wankers of Heaven, eh. There was nothing about them that was even remotely compelling. Aziraphale, in contrast, was in actual possession of a personality and he could certainly be quite the bastard when he wanted to be. He was all the world Crowley needed. Any feelings he might have experienced when looking at any other being of this world or or any other simply could not compare.

But of course he couldn't just up and explain all this to the ignorant likes of an otherwise well meaning lesbian human. So, he erred on the side of making life simpler and replied with what might have been a heart felt, "You're not wrong."

He was hardly in the habit of making humans happy but he didn't mind having done so in this instance. Except that it got Jeanie and Alice to talking about all their female dating woes _(lesbian or otherwise and both of which sounded exhausting so far as Crowley was concerned and reminded him once again the added benefits of being Azirasexual_) but he in turn got to experience the, as of yet, unexplored dynamic of getting to talk about Aziraphale (_aka: Alexander Fell)._

Which was actually kind of fun, given that he had only ever been able to talk to other people _(aka: the council of Hell)_ about Aziraphale in an exclusively negative construct. It was nice to waffle on a bit about all the standard ways in which the angel irritated, bugged and delighted the absolute Heaven out of him. He barely took notice of the other staff members having 'joined' the conversation at some point, though was made fully aware of their presence when they started interspersing some of his stories or commentaries with near perfectly aligned chorus of '_awww's.'_

"You got a picture of your beau?" Jeanie asked, having already shared an otherwise extensive collection of pictures of her own partner; stored in her mobile phone.

Crowley frisked his hand into his pocket. "Course." He said, digging out his wallet and flipping it open to show off the photograph of he and Aziraphale, which Aziraphale vocally detested and had made many attempts to miracle out of Crowley's possession. He had more on his own phone, of course but as if he wasn't going to take the opportunity to show _this_ one around.

"Oh my God, he is _so_ 'effing cute!" Alice beamed, taking the wallet from Crowley and holding it up so that the group of girls could gather in around it. "He looks so... _different_ to you."

"Understatement of the century." Crowley remarked, mostly to himself. He added then, for their benefit: "He _is_ pretty different. But we like a lot of the same things, surprisingly. Not that you would know it."

"You've got long hair in the picture." Jeanie said, tapping her finger against the plastic panel of the wallet.

"Took that shot around 1998." Crowley mused. "Had a hard time letting go of the eighties, me."

To be honest, Crowley had had a hard time letting go of the sixties and seventies; perhaps his very favourite twinned decades of all time. But this of course did not appear to line up well with the age in which he was currently presenting; which he believed to have been around his mid to late thirties _(but most humans would accurately estimate as perhaps being definitely closer to his early forties_). He was distracted by the memories for a moment; fond times where high wasted velvet flares and silk shirts and platform shoes were the rage and no one cared if you couldn't dance with any semblance of skill _(which was Heaven's fault really for hogging all the choreographer's_) because they were all spaced out on magic mushrooms and Mexican lawn clippings and as a result _everyone_ danced like there was a live wire set to their cerebral cortex.

It was a time in which Aziraphale had felt decidedly uncomfortable, Crowley remembered. All the glitz and glamour and disco and glow of the decade had been quite enough so far as he was concerned but the added bonus of the platform heels meant that in just about every interaction they'd had, Crowley near towered an extra foot or so over him. Something Aziraphale was never self-conscious about really but Crowley had relished to such a degree that it made it nigh impossible to appear unconcerned about it.

Crowley showed the girls a couple more photo's on his phone; those that were more recent. The sharing made him feel a little warm. A little proud. It was... nice to feel proud. To show Aziraphale off to other people and to hear their positive appraisal in return. Crowley was, as he had always been, undeniably certain of the fact that Aziraphale was a being of distinct beauty beyond compare. Most humans did not perceive attraction quite the way that he did, however. He tried to explain it.

"Picture doesn't do it justice." He said, not even realizing that he had accepted a cigarette at some point. He took a puff, felt chuffed and relaxed and much a part of something as the process had once been. They'd smoked together in generations past, he and Aziraphale. He blew out smoke; relaxed once more into the act he had once worked so hard to forego. "He just... he walks into a room and... his smile... He has the most gorgeous smile. Goes right on up into his eyes. Loved him the first moment I saw that smile." The first time. The _first time_ he had ever admitted it out loud. To strangers. To _strangers_ of all people. "The entire room can be dark and dank and dull as mud but he... he makes it _better_. Makes it warmer. Like a cosy fire, crackling away all merry in the corner. ...Well, not like the fire itself but the warm you feel when you're a comfy distance, you know? Listening to the soft crackling. That's him. The soft crackling. The warm."

All soft. All warm. Like the hugs. Like a blanket wrapped snug about your shoulders. Being tucked in tight under the awning of a safe arm. A safe wing.

"Picture doesn't do it justice. Not quite." Crowley looked at one of the photos on his phone. Of Aziraphale's nervous, scrunched nosed little smile. Looked to the subtle pink of his lips and thought back to how they had been pressed to the side of his face that morning. Wondered, briefly, what it might have been like if he had turned his head, such as he had wanted, and to have placed his lips to where his cheek had been. He could just as soon as feel his own hand, sliding about to press to the angel's neck. To cup to his shoulder. To pull him in, claim him. To _be_ claimed.

Oh, it was so terribly human, wasn't it? A want of the body, of the brain in which the soul was encased, no doubt.

But a thirst, nonetheless. A deep, cavernous,_ wrenching_ thirst.

"I love the stupid idiot." Crowley said aloud. It was a monumental concession; one which he was aware he had always known, had always _felt_ but a feeling he had never collated into words, into form. Hardly different really, to how he went about most things. It might have shocked him, to admit it to strangers. But it didn't. It was... needed. He wanted to talk to others about those things he had held tight and true and painfully sequestered to the nearest and most painful borders of his soul. Things he had never been able to talk about; not to anyone.

Oh, it could be so terribly complicated, if one allowed it. Form, which was the words as much as it was the actions one took in expressing that which was the deep and intrinsic feeling of love itself. The Feeling. Feeling which might and often was viewed as adverse to the Form. The experience versus the expression. Quite as true, in the divide which existed between demons and angels, as was good and as was evil.

_I might indeed love you but I cannot ever apply some physical form to that love._

This was Aziraphale's struggle.

To wit, it was Crowley's struggle as well.

But for a while, in the presence of his new human work companions, Crowley was none of these complicated, ineffable things. Which was a grand relief, to be honest. For now, he could be, as imposed by the boundaries of their understanding; a man who was deeply in love with another man, whom he viewed the inert nose scrunching of and the bowtie wearing predilection of as being incredibly endearing and adorable and ever so simple to love and to desire. To thirst for and to want. To want to a degree so much deeper than the subverted layers of whatever permeated between the looks they cast off towards each other.

Lures which might have been yes nibbled upon, but never snapped up with confidence. With strength of conviction.

They likely pondered other things, his colleagues. Humans often did. Their minds invariably wandered, as such.

They probably wondered as to how they went about business in bed.

Crowley had wondered such things himself. He wasn't altogether certain how it might have worked. The late night television shows suggested that he was expected to have made a lot of noise, to have achieved certain angles with his legs _(which, being at core a snake, was not entirely unattainable_) and to have made frequent concessions to God _(not happening)_ and done quite a lot swearing _(definitely doable)_.

But beds were soft. Aziraphale was soft.

And an orgasm was nice. Very nice in fact.

They seemed an invariably good lineup, if a demon was to be honest with oneself.

Bed. Aziraphale. Orgasm. Sleep. Throw in a bottle of red somewhere betwixt all the other variables and it seemed to Crowley like there could not be a more perfect combination one could reasonably expect to squeeze into one's evening.

Not to mention, an _angel_ having _actual sex_? Hot damn, if watching him eating larva cake was a turn on, the very thought of bearing witness to the intense degree of pleasure what orgasm wrought? It was quite enough to make Crowley weak at the knees. Never mind that he might very well have been able to share in that feeling of pleasure in a more... direct capacity. Experience that same pleasure he himself attained through orgasm, combined with the intensity of pleasure he further experienced whence observing Aziraphale himself taking pleasure in some act? Perhaps, if such a thing was possible, through having achieved orgasm himself?

Crowley took another puff of the cigarette. And felt rather as though he could have used quite a few puffs more.

**~X~**

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**A/N:** Today's Health Lesson - Demon's do not get lung cancer. A lot of humans, unfortunately, do. Partake of cigarettes at your own risk and discretion :)

Thanks as always to everyone for reading, following the story, all the lustful thoughts you entertain about the person who writes said story, etc. They are all very the much appreciated! If you would like to convey your appreciation by either commenting, following or favouriting, you are more than welcome to do so.

As always, with all my most infernal of loves and snekky cuddles bequeathed,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo

(Unless of course you value your personal space. In which case, I will nod gratefully at you from a respectful and appropriate distance).


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER: **Good Omens is protected and preserved by the noble denizens of the Witch Finder Army. Any attempts to parlay the characters and or situations as presented in both novel and television show alike for charlatanism and harlotry alike, shalt find themselves punitively exorcised of by way of bell, book and candle. And finger, of course. One mustn't go forgetting the finger.

**A/N: **Hello again, everyone! Welcome to Part 2 of the once obnoxiously enormous original chapter 5!

Good Omens random factoid (or rather, contemplation) of the day: If angels have true forms, why then did Aziraphale not assume this supposed true form following his discorporation? For that matter, how come all the angels in Heaven simply look human? And the demons look human, but rather the more down and out 'hard knock life' dumpster diving version of humans?

Is it that the only true difference between angels, demons and humans is that the first two have wings and powers? And some vestal/damnable appropriations, such as gold makeup, face paint, lesions, scales, funny coloured eyes and... I don't know, bad shoe protectors? I actually kind of head cannon this, because the idea of true, alternative forms is just inherently too grandiose for me. It seems appropriate that gold face paint is pretty much as far as it goes.

Anyhoo, that being considered, please feel free to have a read! I hope that you enjoy :)

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**~X~**

_**February 7th - 9:15am**_

**_The Grange Estate Nursing Home - London, Suburbia_**

Post break time. Back down to business.

Meeting and greeting with some of the residents who were of higher cognitive functioning. He played chess with one elderly gentleman, who whooped his arse in about five seconds flat and read a couple of chapters of some tawdry romance novel to another woman, who, thankfully, dozed off right before it got to the really steamy sections. Which was a hell of a relief, because he'd entertained quite enough racy thoughts for one day, thank you very much. Any more and he'd be needing some smelling salts to drag his rear up off of the floor.

He and Jeanie then fairly much had to race themselves back to the staff room to hoik fresh laundry out of the dryers and weave them back over the beds which had, earlier that day, been stripped down. A fitted rubber mattress protector first of course and then every other layer following, plus fresh pillow protectors and covers. It all had to be done quickly and efficiently, which was a novelty for someone like Crowley, who was accustomed to simply waving his hand and having his bed fairly much make and clean itself. He got the hang of it in short order however, finding something amusing in all the rush-rush drama of the thing. Jeanie laughed through the process itself but nonetheless treated the job with military efficiency, fairly much leaping, giant belly and all, from one corner of the bed to the next, slamming the fitted ends around the mattresses with the precision and energy of a four man pit crew. Crowley wasn't at all sure how she managed it. He was already feeling knackered from the mornings exertions and he wasn't carrying around new life inside of his belly.

_Human women_, he thought, watching as Jeanie tucked in the corners on her side of the bed and then toddled to the door, waving a hand urgently at him to follow along._ Are most definitely a force to be reckoned with. Especially the pregnant ones._

It was to stand that Crowley was in fact destined to meet not just one but _two_ dynamic female forces with which to be reckoned that very day. The first had been Jeanie. The second, was Gretchen De La Fontaine.

Gretchen was a supurb human being, by all modest estimates. He had known a lot of them, in his six thousand years of existence.

But for whatever the reason, Crowley found that he liked this particular human being quite a great deal more than he did most any other he had spent time in the company of.

Gretchen was ninety-two years young, her skin the same dark as had been the first woman Eve's and she was blind in both eyes. She was of French origin, having moved to England only some thirty years prior with her husband. He had done most of the talking on her part, as her grasp of the English language was tenuous at best. She could speak just enough so as to get her needs across; which was good, as her husband had unfortunately passed some years prior and was, as a natural side effect of being deceased, no longer able to serve as translator for her.

Gretchen was sitting in an armchair by her bedroom window when Jeanie and Crowley entered and she was warm in her greeting, letting Jeanie waffle on in that way Crowley was certain most people thought was as phony as Heaven. _(Jeanie didn't seem phony really. She was naturally chipper, which was an emotion which was so wane in modern times it was never ostensibly trusted to be as austere as it certainly was. Aziraphale was one of the few who was able to effect it genuinely, for want of the fact that his entire being exuded that erstwhile light and warmth and love as effortlessly as most human beings exuded gas)._

About five minutes into what was very clearly a very one sided conversation, another of the workers came and asked if Jeanie could assist her with an emergency in the other room. Crowley thought it rather unprofessional for a trainee to be left unsupervised and in the presence of a client, but hey, wasn't like he was actually going to do anything. He just figured it worth taking note of.

It amused him to hear Gretchen exhale deeply as the door closed in Jeanie's wake. "She's a nice girl that one. But man oh man, she could talk the ears off of a..." She paused, looking annoyed at her memory and scratched an age spot on her chin. "Oh... this damned memory of mine. What is it you could talk the ears off of?"

"I don't know. Rabbit, maybe?" Crowley said, thinking himself very responsible in checking the condition of the bed linen, moving his palm over the fitted sheet to make certain it wasn't damp. He heard Gretchen exclaim loudly and delightedly from behind him. The reason being was that Gretchen had, from the moment he'd entered the room, been speaking in French. And he had, in turn, responded in French. He had always been much more affluent in maintaining his multilingual skill set than Aziraphale, who sort of tended to let these things slip by the wayside, when he was not assigned to or living in any other country as opposed to England. Crowley was particularly fluent in French; a great many of his jobs had required him to travel to and from there. Lot of tempting got done in good old _Paris_.

"You speak French?" Gretchen had asked, extending her aged hands towards him. Crowley, smiling, though she could not of course see him doing so, responded with (_in French, of course_):

"Yes, ma'am. I lived in France for quite a few years. Happy to keep speaking it, if it makes you feel more comfortable?"

"Please. I never get a chance to speak in the old tongue anymore. The girls are sweet, but they don't extend themselves very far, if you catch my meaning." She gave a little sigh, her face angled towards where Crowley was still checking over the bed. "Honey, I know exactly what you're doing and you can stop. I may be old, but I ain't that far gone yet."

Crowley smiled, pulling back the cover of the bed and perching himself on the edge of it. "Pardon my manners." His eyes cast to a framed photograph on the bedside table. A much younger Gretchen, with a man dressed in that ever so dapper style of the late 1940's. He picked it up, thinking it a rather strange addition to the bedroom of a woman who was, quite obviously, as blind as a bat. "This young man your husband, Gretchen?"

She chuckled again, her cloudy eyes cast vaguely in his direction. "Listen to you, talking like you've been around." She dabbed a finger towards where she must have supposed the picture to be. "That's my Alfred. He kicked off over fifteen years ago now. Still miss him every day."

"I'm sorry. These things are never easy." Crowley said, feeling his words very poor solace in place of a loved ones incomparable companionship. If her loss felt even half as bad as it had that awful hour he'd spent thinking Aziraphale was dead, then it was most certainly a pain he would not have wished on anyone. Except perhaps Hastur.

Gretchen reached across, dabbed her fingertips to Crowley's knee and gave it a then firmer pat.

"Never you mind, baby. We had us over fifty years together. Not everyone gets even that." Though her eyes were cloudy, he still thought they might have danced with mischief. Her brows certainly did. "You got yourself a lady friend, Mr... um... sorry, what did you say your name was again?"

"Anthony." Crowley said, having elected to go with his self-given name whilst volunteering at the home. He preferred for his actual name to be the exclusive go to now of Aziraphale alone; gave it a sort of permanence that way. "I have a life partner."

Well, it wasn't wrong, not_ really_. Perhaps it wasn't quite in the same ballpark as what Gretchen was referencing but Aziraphale really did serve as Crowley's 'partner' in so few words. They had been companions for much, much, much longer than any married persons on earth could ever lay claim to. They simply lacked the intimacy that came from picking out curtains together.

"Ah. And what's her name?" Gretchen asked, not in the least sounding like an invasive busy body but rather as though she were just genuinely curious and (_most likely_) simply bored by having to put up with the same idle conversation from the same so and so's every single day. Crowley laughed softly.

"_His_ name, is Alex."

He wondered for a moment if Gretchen would have one of those reactions human's had sometimes to the witnessing of supposed non-traditional lifestyle choices (_Not that he and Aziraphale were technically male_) but Gretchen surprised him in hardly looking the least startled. She simply made an O shape with her mouth, showing off a set of nicely cared for dentures and reached across again to touch his knee.

"Oh, I'm sorry love, I didn't mean to offend you. Sometimes it's hard these days to say the right thing."

"Don't worry about it." Crowley said, smilingly. Not that Gretchen could see his expression mind, but it was quite unconscious. He was simply enjoying himself now. "Take a lot more than that to offend a thick skinned old bugger like me."

"Good. Good." Gretchen paused a moment, tilting her head so that her ear was angled slightly upward. She leaned forward in her chair, lowering her voice. Crowley couldn't imagine why she felt the need to do such a thing, as it was hardly likely that any of the folks working at the home could speak or understand French. "Would you mind helping me outside, sweetheart?"

"Am I... allowed to do that?" Crowley asked, which was a question he never thought he might have had reason to ask. Demon's traditionally did not give a wit as to what they may or may not be allowed to do. Those were mortal and or angelic constraints. For a demon any line drawn in the sand might as well be a written invitation to put your foot across it. If in fact a demon required an invitation to do as they pleased.

Gretchen made a grouchy, fussy sounding noise, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm not in prison. Might feel like it some days. But I'm allowed to go outside, yes. Need my wheelchair, though."

"Well all right, ma'am." Crowley said, slapping his palms to his knees and swinging himself back up onto his feet. "You ok with me lifting you?"

"Won't be going far if you don't."

She was cheeky this one. And her mind was still obviously as sharp as a whip. Crowley found himself smiling as he guided the wheelchair over and set it up, brakes locked into place, opposite Gretchen's armchair. He guided her up and out of her seat, just the way his training certificate said he knew how to and slowly eased her around so that she could slide backwards into the seat.

"You feel as though you need a good meal there, Anthony." Gretchen remarked, one bony hand reaching up to glance a slight pet to the flat of his stomach.

"Would that I could get a fork in edgewise. Alex eats enough for a family of five." Crowley settled her into the wheelchair, gently placing her feet onto the support pedals and stood back, making certain that she was seated straight and comfortable. "There we go. Need a blanket for your lap or something?"

"Because us old biddies_ love_ our crotched shawls." Gretchen said in such a salty and sarcastic tone it made Crowley chuckle to hear it.

"Well _excuse me_ for worrying that you might get cold."

"If you wanna actually help, be a dear and grab my fags from the bedside table."

Crowley made a show of gasping with exaggerated disgust. "You smoke?!" He stuttered dramatically, as though he had never chanced upon anything quite so scandalous in all his many years of existence. "But what about the _cancer?!_"

"I'm ninety-fucking-_two_!" Gretchen exclaimed, which set Crowley to laughing out loud as he nonetheless went to the bedside table to fulfill her request. "At this point, cancer would be a blessing!"

Crowley retrieved the cigarette packet and the Bic lighter set next to it and closed the bedside drawer. "Fine. You can hold 'em though." He said, setting them down in Gretchen's lap and guiding her hand over to rest atop them. "I've already got enough to do pushing your arse around."

It was a risk he knew, to speak so candidly to someone he now had a duty of care around and certain professional guidelines and boundaries to observe but Gretchen continued to surprise him by laughing with what appeared to be genuine enjoyment in response. She was clearly the type who liked to have a bit of a shit stir and a tease and being able to openly communicate for once in God knows only how long was likely to be cheering her up. No delicate flower this one, but a strong woman, hardened by human life and able to laugh at herself from any which angle you might come at her from.

"Kid, you're all right." She said, as Crowley took the wheelchair by the handles and knocked back the brakes with the heel of his foot.

"Whatever. You're a burden on society and you should be ashamed of yourself." They both chuckled at this one as Crowley pushed the wheelchair through the open doorway and steered it in the direction of the garden. "Right. Hold onto your dentures."

She huffed judgmentally. "Call this fast? I can soil my pull ups faster than this."

"Yeah, well don't bother, Ms Sassy. Had my fill of shitty knickers for the day, thankyou." Crowley started to push the wheelchair a little faster, though. There'd been something of a challenge in Gretchen's words and he was not a demon who ever turned down the opportunity to prove somebody wrong.

"Come on now, I'll be dead before we reach the garden!"

"Here's hoping." Crowley smirked, putting on another small notch of speed and sending the both of them bursting out through the double exit doors and into the small contained garden space. There were some very well cared for plants and flowers in the garden, Crowley observed and wondered just how much yelling was required to keep the rose bushes in line and blooming so splendidly. There was likely a Gardner around here with a very sore throat and a half chewed through packet of Blackcurrant Throaties.

Crowley spun the wheelchair about on its back wheels, which Gretchen seemed to think an ever so marvelous thing. He was fortunate that no other member of staff had seen him all but flying down the hallway with one of the residents on this, his first day but Gretchen for her part seemed to have had a fun time of it. And that had to be the more important thing, didn't it? Giving some joy back to people who probably spent the majority of their days being absolutely and unequivocally bored as fuck? Eating brown bread and drinking decaffeinated coffee with skim milk and not being allowed to mix their medications with a nice neat whiskey when they so desired? Throw in a couple of leaky pipes and larvae infested demons and the place would not be far removed from Hell itself.

"Okay. Where do you want to go?" He asked, glancing about the garden so as to find a suitably flat space on which the wheelchair might safely rest without rolling backwards and sending his elderly charge flipping arse over tits.

"Near the roses, dear." Gretchen gestured with surprising accuracy towards the fringe of rose bushes near the adjacent buildings wraparound verandah. "Do enjoy the smell of them."

"Might block out the smell of your fags." Crowley murmured, which resulted in his getting a light slap on the hand from Gretchen as he wheeled her over and perched her by the roses. He locked the brakes in place and gave the wheelchair a light wiggle to ensure that it wasn't about to move. Gretchen lit up one of her cigarettes and took a deep drag; typically coughing deep and cavernously just after having done so. _Ah well,_ Crowley thought. _Free will and all that._

She gestured towards where she must have assumed Crowley to have been with the open ended packet. "Have one, if you like. You smoke Anthony?"

"Sometimes." He remarked, truthfully. Not often, however and never in the presence of Aziraphale. They had made a pact in the eighties to quit together; the both of them having smoked since the early Roman times, as was keeping with human tradition. Aziraphale had found it very difficult in particular; being for, whatever the reason, more at the mercy of the addiction than Crowley himself had ever been. Crowley could take or leave a cigarette. He was the type of individual that might pick one up, suck it in and not need nor want another for months on end. Yes, precisely. _That_ manner of bastard.

Aziraphale on the other hand was _not_ this type of bastard. His body, Crowley thought, must have possessed a strong addictive component; something in the human brain to which his soul had been assigned. For many years, he smoked consistently and heavily; such that he had reached a point in the fifties where he felt he could taste it all the time and could smell it in his clothes and hair. Though he was able to continue to heal his human body, to prohibit the negative effects that smoking might otherwise have had _(he was vigilant in bleaching his teeth, in particular_) he no longer enjoyed being slave to the sensation and very much wanted to shelve it for good. Crowley naturally had been supportive concerning this and they made a pact to quit together; making one another accountable in keeping tabs on their progress and their invariably slip ups. Crowley was, in fact, incredibly proud of Aziraphale for having stuck with it as long as he had. He had not gone cold turkey to begin with, but had cut back considerably and consistently until one day he took that last cigarette, smoked it and then never lit another. At least for himself.

Crowley, having not been so heavily addicted, had not nearly been quite as good in steering clear of the coffin nails. Every once in a blue moon, if he felt like it or felt he might have needed to do so in order to blend in, he would allow himself a cigarette. Never around Aziraphale. And, if he was due to see Aziraphale following his having had the cigarette, Crowley would change his clothes, chew mints until his tongue just about blistered out of his mouth and whack cologne on every spare inch of skin available.

Wow. It really was not much of a stretch to suppose that the two of them were in fact life partners, now was it?

Gretchen gestured again with the packet. Ever the enabler, it seemed. "Help yourself. Keep an old gal company."

"Oh, no. I can't take one of yours. Boundaries and all that. Thanks all the same." Wanting however to build a bit more rapport with the old girl, Crowley went ahead and miracled what was to be his second cigarette of the day into his hand and popped it between his lips. "Got my own."

He lit the end with a blaze from his finger tip and took a deep drag in. He felt a little guilty, his mind having cast back to his pact with Aziraphale. It always did whenever he lit up.

"Tell me more about this Alex of yours." Gretchen asked, not altogether helping in keeping Crowley distracted from the angel that he felt he was now somewhat betraying. "You been together long?"

"Six tho-" He stopped. Cleared his throat. _Something a bit more reasonable than that, you idiot_. "Six...teen years."

"Seems a long time. You sound young. How old are you?"

"Well, that's a bit rude." Crowley remarked. Not truly offended but wanting to have a bit of fun all the same. "How old are you? How much do you weigh?"

"Before or after they hose me off in the morning?"

Crowley chuckled, flicking ash off to the side and drawing in another cloud of poisonous vapours from the cigarette. He'd forgot how soothing it was. "I'm... thirty... nine..."

It probably wasn't at all accurate. Crowley wasn't much good at estimating human ages. But most people seemed satisfied in the past when he had given this answer when being asked the question as to how old he was. It was certainly more convincing than the time Aziraphale had replied to one curious individual that he was: "Twenty-one... ish."

"You've been together a while then." Gretchen observed, taking herself another puff of her cigarette and tapping a finger to the cylinder so as to break away the gradually forming worm of ash that had adhered to its tip.

"Yeah, well. Wasn't like there was much competition." Which was quite true of course, but even if there had been, Crowley knew full well that none of it would ever serve as being _actual_ competition. He wasn't sure as to why he had felt the need to sound so flippant about it. Wasn't like_ he_ was the one ashamed of their relationship. Such as it was.

"What does he do?"

And here he was. For the second time that day, off and talking about bloody Aziraphale again. "Rare book dealer. Owns a bookshop in Soho."

"And he enjoys it?"

"Oh, loves it. Bloody _froths_ on books. Always got his nose buried in some sort of nonsense."

"What's he like?"

Crowley pulled a face at her; though she wasn't about to see it of course. "Why all the questions, young lady? You gonna write his biography or something?"

"Excuse _me_ for showing an interest!"

"You see me taking an interest in _you_?" They both laughed at this and Crowley sucked again from his dwindling cigarette. He couldn't quite remember the last time he had enjoyed someone's company so much. Well... aside from Aziraphale's, of course. "Well... he's an angel. He's very warm, very kind. Little bit on the chubby side. ...He gives_ real_ good hugs."

"I'm sure he does." Gretchen said, with a knowing chuckle.

"That wasn't a double entendre." Crowley said, with a tired sigh. Thought a bit more as to how he might best describe Aziraphale in slightly less flowery terms than he had been employing use of earlier. "He's obsessed with food. If it's not a book in his face, it's a fully loaded fork."

"Ah. That's why he's chubby."

"You missed your true calling, Gretchen. You ought to have been a detective. What did you do with yourself? You know, before you were decrepit?"

She mused on the question a moment; her cigarette poised before her lips, mostly caved in but still lovingly attended to with lipstick. There often was nothing so classy in all the modern world, Crowley thought, as an elderly woman. Still strong enough and proud enough to attend to her appearance, whereas so many younger person's might have made excuses as to why they might let the practice slip. He loved the way these older dears would formatively brush their hair into tight rigorous curls, whack on their 'crown jewels' as he would put it and still painstakingly apply their makeup. Even if it was just for the workers who were coming in to support them for the day. It was sort of a sign of respect to care for yourself, as such. He wasn't much different himself, really. He enjoyed a good preen.

"Well, I used to work as a doctor. ...a _discreet_ doctor. Performing... discreet surgeries."

"Ah..." Crowley said. Realizing immediately. She had been a doctor trained in terminating_ unwanted pregnancies_. "That must have been difficult for you."

"It was. But I felt as though young women who had gotten themselves in trouble needed someone in their corner. Someone sympathetic, who wasn't about to judge them." She drew in on her cigarette. Directed her unseeing gaze off to the side, over the rose bushes and slowly exhumed the poisonous cloud of smoke. "I wonder sometimes you know. I'm getting older, baby. That's when you get to wondering about things." She tapped free some ash. It cracked, splintered and drifted away in the light breeze. Some gathered on the arm of the wheelchair. "I never done regretted helping any of those girls. Saw far too much gratitude in their eyes. I was happy to take on the sin for them. Gets me to wondering though whether it might be enough to be sending _me_ on down to Hell for it. Taking away all that life, you know."

"Did you enjoy it?" Crowley asked, dashing his fingers over the arm of the wheelchair and wiping away the cigarette ash. Her head snapped towards him so violently that something even lower in her aged spine popped as trapped air was displaced.

"You bite your tongue, child! Of _course_ I could never enjoy such a thing! I did what I did to spare those poor girls the misery of being landed with something which they did not wish to be settled with in the first place! On some occasions,_ entirely_ against their will."

"You're fine then." Crowley said. Earnestly. Honestly. "A sin is only truly a sin when the non consensual act of committing it is truly enjoyed by the perpetrator. If you did not enjoy what you were doing and if by doing it, you were acting out of compassion for these women who you perceived to have been in genuine pain and despair then... no." He shook his head, puffed his own cigarette. Eyed a wilted, browning rose petal and quashed down the flagrant desire to pull the lazy plant into line. "No. Hell will have no claim to you. Not a good woman like you. There's nothing jagged in a soul like yours that they can hook onto and drag down. Rest easy. Heaven's angels will have you in their sights, nothing surer."

They were quiet a moment; smoke drifting up idly from their cigarettes. And then, Crowley heard her give the smallest, most ladylike sniff. Tears had poised at the edges of her blinded eyes and he felt the biggest knob for never having a handerchief on his person. _(This was what Aziraphale was good for, these sorts of situations)._

"Thank you." She said, smiling in his direction and using the hem of her blouse to dab at the corners of her eyes. Crowley felt a flush light to his cheeks and went to his immediate, comforting standby of grunting disconcertedly so as to shield himself from embarrassment. "I don't know why, but when _you_ say it, I feel as though it's true. God knows, enough folks have tried to convince me of it through the years." She breathed in some more of her cigarette. "You seem an old soul, Anthony. Something about you... you're a nice young man."

_Oh jeez. Oh no, not that word. Eugh._

_Nice._

_Change the topic._

"Got any little tackers of your own, Gretchen?" He asked, reaching out and taking hold of the browning rose petal. Stared pointedly over his glasses at the plant, making a gesture as though he were going to rip the petal right out. The rose bush gave a veritable tremble and seemed to almost shift in the dirt so as to pull away from the pointed glare of the demon.

"No. Alfred and I... we weren't able to."

"Sorry to hear it." Crowley said. He yanked out the rose petal and the bush recoiled, almost trembling against the brick wall which bracketed it. Crowley held the petal aloft and turned in a circle, displaying it to the surrounding bushes as though it were the severed head of an enemies King; executed upon a battlefield of ages past. A cold breeze went through the garden as the entire collective of plants took to fearful trembling.

"Oh, don't be. Never much cared for kids." Gretchen stubbed out her cigarette on the arm of the wheelchair and flicked the butt off somewhere discriminately. Crowley, still keeping resilient eye contact with the slackening plants, backed over to where the butt had landed and sent it over to a wall mounted cigarette dispensary with a flick of his finger. _(Littering had once been a good standby, but it was hardly going to keep him employed now)._

"They can be sticky." He responded, in deference to children. He was rather fond of kids, in his way. They were innocent, vulnerable little things; still working out the every which way of how they were going to conduct their growing's up. But after serving as nanny to a child who he had supposed to have been the anti-Christ _(and turned out to have been another child entirely)_ he was certain he could do without having human children within sticky fingered groping distance of him for some time.

"And noisy. And _expensive_. No, without children, Alfred and I were able to see the world. Back when I could see, of course." She gestured indeterminedly over her shoulder with one of her thumbs. All her nails were perfectly groomed and Crowley had a thought that this was by her own meticulous attentions and not down to those of the staff. "Got a photo album inside. I can't see shit of course, but you're welcome to have a look. Don't bother humouring me if you ain't interested though. I got no patience for that."

"I wouldn't dream of humouring you." Crowley said with a warm and genuine smile. He flicked the petal away, aimed a finger about at the collective gathering of bushes before then whipping it smartly across his own throat. All the plants shrank back as one, their roots about yanking out of the ground in their terror. "Ya know... I was real edgy about coming here but you've actually made me feel a whole lot better about it. Sharp as a whip, you are."

"Small wonder. All the meds I'm on." Gretchen laughed. A thought then came to Crowley. Something which, if any of his once superiors in Hell had been able to audit it, would have found the content nigh demonstrably good and decent in most every facet and entirely and unimpeachably unsuited to that which a working demon ought be conducting his business.

"Hey, Gretch?" He gave a sly smile; one of those smiles which Aziraphale, in his own mind, thought to be ever so beautiful and ever so indicative of their being trouble afoot. "They ever let you out for day trips?"

**~X~**

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**A/N: **It's times like this that I really wish that I could draw. I would LOVE to sketch a picture of Crowley in his work duds. I just think he would look super cute in those white scrubs :3 Ah well, we can't have everything, sadly. We'll just have to use our imaginations!

Thanks as always for joining me for this section, my dears! If you enjoyed, please feel free to donate to my writing pipe fund in the way of a review, a favourite or a follow. All of which really lift my tartan sock suspenders!

With all my love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER: **As Good Omens is not the property of my inoffensive self, I garner no profits from the writing and or distribution of fanfiction. I am happy to share this story with you fine people and if you choose to come on this journey with me then the more the merrier :) (Quietly curses the lack of support for fanfiction writers and the fact that no one will ever buy her a cup of coffee in exchange for content. Or glass of wine, rather :P

**A/N: **This subdividing is both exhausting and cathartic at the same time. Can't lie; kind of loving it, though :) Thanks as always to everyone who is engaging with the story; I appreciate every single one of you that drops in for a perusal. That being said, I can't think of a random factoid to share with you right now, so I'll just say; hope you enjoy the chapter!

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**~X~**

_**February 7th - 5:14pm**_

**_A.Z Fell & Co - London Soho..._**

Aziraphale closed up shop at 5:00pm on the dot.

It had been a productive day. So, as you might imagine, this meant that angel was, as a result of said productivity, not at all in the best of moods.

Productive days meant that Aziraphale had successfully accrued an income. These days were required, of course, so as to keep being able to pay the rent, add to his savings, live life and all the rest. He could hardly be singularly reliant on conducting research, text translations, appraisals and chasing orders for ring in customers after all. _(Though these were the jobs which most often paid the very best, such that it was exceedingly rare for him to even require so much as cracking the antique till which was perched up, more as a decorative feature, upon his counter top)._

Today had been one of those, as he often so tentatively referred to it in his head as, 'Concession days'. Days in which he conceded to letting go of some of his books, not quite so prized as the rest (_absolutely no first editions_) in exchange for, what Crowley had once informed him, was considerably a lot less than what they were invariably worth. Being an angel, it was quite impossible for him to overcharge, of course. And it made his stomach hurt to even think about his benighted customers being out of pocket in some way shape or form. They of course hadn't the luxury of six thousand years existence in which to save up a comfortable nest egg. He _did_. It was nowhere in the same realm as Crowley's diabolically manifested... well, to refer to over nine million pounds of savings as a nest egg was sort of like referring to a bagpipe as a humble sounding kazoo, wasn't it?

In short, Aziraphale had permitted the sale of over twenty-five books that day. He felt the loss of each much as he might a metaphorical kick in the teeth with a steel capped boot. It would of course be many years before he might ever see them again; perhaps buying them back or hunting them down at deceased estates at what not._ It wasn't goodbye forever_, he would remind himself as each book was sequestered away in the little brown paper bags he provided, out the door and into life with their subsidiary owners. _Just goodbye for now._

So when Crowley dragged himself in a little after five, looking much as a wash cloth does after it has been wrung dry by a champion weight lifter, Aziraphale felt significantly more the cheered for seeing him. As he approached, Crowley took one look at his downcast face and set aside his own innate weariness for the moment.

"Had to sell some books today, huh?"

Aziraphale gave a little nod, his lips pressed together tightly in a poor attempt to keep them from trembling. Crowley sighed, setting down the bottle of wine that he had fetched for Aziraphale as promised and opened his arms to the gloomy angel.

"Come on then. Bring it in."

Aziraphale didn't at all mind the hugs these days. He especially appreciated this one. He wasn't even bothered by the slight whiff of ammonia _(and something else which was vaguely familiar)_ coming off of Crowley's crinkly work uniform.

"Never the mind. There's little to do for these sorts of things." He remarked, easing himself back and placing his hands to each of Crowley's shoulders. He looked him up and down. Petted a hand to the demon's sleepy looking face. "What a very long day you have had, my dear. You must be terribly tired." He took a step back, gesturing to the demons attire. "Just look at you all professional in your work uniform."

"It's mine, you know." Crowley grunted, swanning on past Aziraphale and heading straight for his usual safe nook in the corner settee. He collapsed down onto it, throwing his booted feet _(a strange combination whence coupled with the starched white of the uniform)_ over the arm and rubbing his fingers across his forehead. "Need to take care of it. Wash it and everything. Anything happens to it, I gotta play for a replacement set."

"How will you _ever_ cope?" Aziraphale teased, placing away the bottle of wine and removing the last of the money from the till. He piled it into a small bag which he then transferred to the equally as petite safe he kept in the back room. He called out to Crowley as he went about his end of day business. "I can wash it for you if you like. Otherwise I'm sure you could just use magic to keep it in tip-top condition."

Crowley curled his lip, thinking there was nothing about his new work uniform which might ever constitute the use of the phrase 'tip-top'. It was a kind offer, however. Aziraphale might have been the type to outsource his personal care requirements but he was fastidious when it came to maintaining his personal belongings. This was his little niche of self-sufficiency of which Crowley, in turn, was notoriously lazy regards.

Aziraphale was the sort who would make his own bed each and every morning, wash and rotate linen and clothing and use all the right sorts of things in all the right components of the washing machine. Crowley had never even _used_ a washing machine, though he had remembered thinking that they were yet another wonderfully clever invention that would save the dear humans a great deal of time. Looked as though the time had come for he himself to get familiar.

"Mind if I just pop into your laundry, strip it off and whack it through the machine now?" Crowley asked, referring to the tidy little laundry room relocated at the rear of the shop. It opened out into a small, equally tidy courtyard, where Aziraphale would hang most of his clothing on a wall mounted clothes line. He had a functional dryer, which he would make use of in the colder, rainier months but he preferred to air dry his laundry, which resulted in a cleaner smell and less issues with irritants. Crowley could hardly believe he was suddenly in a position where any of this nonsense was relevant. Nothing doing for it. Little things like this could be done by hand. No point in potentially wasting magic on something so straight forward.

"By all means. So long as you don't wander out naked again." Aziraphale smiled as a couch cushion hooked through the open doorway, landing just offside of his left heel. He locked the safe, picked the cushion up and returned out to the study area, placing it back on the couch by a grumpy and embarrassed looking Crowley. "There's a box of laundry powder by the machine. Do you need me to show you how to use it?"

"Eh... might be a good idea." Crowley said, visions of a foamy tidal wave flowing out through Aziraphale's back door and surging down the street, sweeping away most of London in the process and taking his work uniform along for the ride.

Aziraphale lead Crowley into the laundry and glanced discretely off to the side as the demon wiggled out of his work clothing, standing then by the washing machine in his boxer shorts, singlet top and black, calf length socks. Aziraphale found himself chuckling at the sight, for it was somewhat charming in its way. Crowley was usually so well dressed and invested a great deal of his identity into his clothing. To see him standing around in his underpants, with his socks pulled up as unnecessarily high as they were... well, there was something strangely humanizing about it.

He took the bundle of proferred crunchy clothing off of Crowley and opened the door of the front loader to toss it inside. He got a whiff of that earlier smell again. The ammonia and... something else. He held the uniform closer to his face and took another deep sniff. Crowley drew his lips back from his teeth, hissing his concern.

"Oh... I wouldn't do that. They probably smell of piss and shit and Satan only knows what else."

"And cigarette smoke." Aziraphale said, the pieces having finally clunked together in his head. He glanced up at Crowley, saw the guilty shifting of his yellow eyes behind his glasses. "Have you been smoking again?"

Crowley was quite obviously (_and quite poorly_) attempting to shirk the truth. "Oh... no, of course not. I was hanging around with a client who was smoking. Smell must have gotten into the fabric."

"Mmm-hmm." Aziraphale murmured, entirely unconvinced. You would think that a demon who had been lying long before there was even a word used with which to describe the practice, might have done a better job of it. He tossed the clothes into the machine and straightened up, gesturing for the demon to come closer. "Right then. Let me smell your breath."

Crowley backed up smartly, brows crinkling in to show quite what he thought of Aziraphale all but sticking his nose into the cavern of his mouth. _(For this was precisely what he had done in the old days when they were pulling each other up for any little slips)._

"What? No!" He internally cursed himself for not having stopped for gum on the drive home. His tongue felt filmy as well, some build up most likely from the cigarettes. He'd had a few more in the afternoon, stupidly. "I don't need your blessed nose all up in my mouth, thank you very much! And for that matter I'm not some child you can take by the hand and steer into the corner for time out when it suits you! I am a grown demon, who makes his own choices and if I so choose to have a fag from time to time, then I jolly well shall!"

And Aziraphale made such an accommodating and yet equally disappointed face in return to his tirade, that it made Crowley feel ever so petty and contrarily childish as a result. He might have apologized immediately for his tone but the angel simply raised a hand, giving a small smile to indicate that it wasn't at all necessary.

"You're right. It is your own choice if you wish to go back to smoking or not." He turned back to the washing machine, opened the left side shelf and reached over for the box of laundry powder. He popped in a good scoopful. "If you choose to do so however, all I ask is that you please refrain from doing so around me. You know how hard it was for me to quit." He groaned, rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. Took a deep, staggered breath in. "Lord, even the _smell_ makes me want one."

"I'm sorry. There's a few smokers at work and one of the clients wanted me to smoke with them and..." Crowley trailed off, feeling ever so much like the world's biggest most complete and most inconsiderate shithead. "I'm _really_ sorry."

Aziraphale glanced his way, took note of how big and wide the demon's eyes looked behind his glasses. How genuinely sad he seemed for having caused the angel this minor distress. What a turn about face, all things considered. Upsetting an angel would have once scored him major points with Hell.

Aziraphale smiled, finding, as he so often did, that it was impossible to stay cross with Crowley when he looked so terribly vulnerable. "Oh, it's all right." He leaned over, petting his palm to the side of the demon's face. A demon who disguised his pleasure at being attended to ever so poorly. "You're impossible to stay mad at with those enormous off putting eyes. Now, watch closely so as you can do this yourself next time."

He showed Crowley the correct amount of powder and fabric softner to use. _(Lord knows the starchy uniform could use with some softening up)_. He turned the dial then to the correct setting but did not switch the machine on right away, turning instead to Crowley and clapping his hands together.

"Right. Before we go and do that, why don't you go and have yourself a nice shower? You probably need one after today. Help relax your muscles and whatnot."

Aziraphale had a small bathroom located just offside of his bedroom. Crowley had used the shower a number of times; usually after a night of drinking when he had seen fit to pass out on the settee. On one occasion, he'd even had the cheek to run himself a bubble bath; which he'd lounged about in whilst Aziraphale had been otherwise occupied working out front of the shop. He'd subsequently found the demon, asleep under a decadent mountain of bubbles, one hairy little leg propped up on the lip of the bathtub and a glass of red wine still resolutely clutched in his unconscious fingers. Crowley had about taken his fingers off when Aziraphale had attempted to remove it.

"Shower sounds good right about now." Crowley muttered, bracing his hand to the back of his neck and cracking some of the joints. His muscles really were sore, as he wasn't habitually accustomed to actually_ using_ them. "You don't mind?"

"Since when do you care? Honestly." Aziraphale smiled, smacking his palm to Crowley's backside to send him on his way. "Go and get washed up and put on something comfortable. I'll pour you a drink and then you can come and tell me all about your first day."

He couldn't see it of course, but a dopey smile had wormed its way onto Crowley's face when he had felt the glance of Aziraphale's hand against the cheek of his arse. He knew full well that the angel had not distributed the smack in an intentionally sexy way, but in more of a warm, familial manner, so as to usher him along.

That wasn't to say that he couldn't enjoy it, however.

Crowley loped his way across the bookshop, some might say a little dreamily,_ (though he would hate to hear it assessed as such)_ and passed through Aziraphale's bedroom and drifted on into the en suite. He cranked the shower handle as high up into the 'Hot' setting as it would go, waited until steam had just about choked out any remaining visibility in the small room and then interred himself beneath the boiling stream. Perfect. Hot enough perhaps to boil most regular human beings eyeballs in their skulls but just ever so good and dandy, so far as a demon was concerned.

He 'borrowed' a bar of Aziraphale's soap; some sort of lavender scented nonsense with goats milk for sensitive skin. Some of his chest hair got stuck to it and he spent an extra couple of minutes picking it clean, rather than leaving behind something which sooner resembled a half dead ferret than it did a bar of soap. He was terribly thoughtful these days, wasn't he? Once upon a time he would have considered a point of immense pride to have left Aziraphale's bathroom in much worse a condition than that in which he had first encountered it. He even had the decency now to dry himself in the shower, so as not to get water all over the tile floor. He even put his towel in the wash basket, rather than leave it lying in a bundle in the corner.

The clothes that Crowley had started his day in were in the car still. He felt he could spare a bit of magic just this once _(and spare Aziraphale having to once more witness the spectacle of him drifting across the room in his underwear_) and retrieved them with a snap of his fingers. He dressed by hand, this time. Wanting to get a bit more accustomed to it. He quickly realized that leather pants were invariably much easier to put on and take off with the aid of magic and was ever the more grateful for his having not left any water on the floor, for he would have likely slipped and cracked his head open; what with all the jumping about and wiggling and squirming he was doing in an effort to slide his lower body into the pants.

It took a fair whack of negotiation, but at long last Crowley was victorious and snapped his belt through the loops of his pants with a feeling of pride that hardly seemed in context to the task he was actually conducting. His shirt was much simpler, though he did wear it tucked in, which required him having to forcefully wedge the tails of the shirt down into the band of his tight pants. He slung his jacket on and slipped the silver cord he wore as sort of an aesthetic feature over his head and looped it in a loose knot somewhere low on his chest. He left the top few buttons of his shirt undone as usual and then perched on the toilet seat so as to fit his shoes on. Dear... whoever. How humans got anything done was beyond him. Getting dressed right out of the gate was an exhausting, time consuming and potentially dangerous task. How they had the energy to put a spoonful of cereal in their mouth following the act was admirable.

Pleased with his efforts, Crowley swept his hair back off of his face _(sneaked a little magic into styling it)_ and sauntered on out into the study nook, feeling a Hell of a lot fresher and a blessed sight more relaxed than he had earlier. The glass of 2008 Loire Valley Sauvignon Blanc Aziraphale handed him was ever so much the cherry on top and he took a large, muchly obliged gulp from the glass, moaning and making a rather grandiose gesture towards the ceiling as he did.

"I put the washer on when I heard the shower switch off." Aziraphale said, smiling at Crowley's typically over dramatic reaction to the proferred libation and taking a sip of wine for himself. "Feeiling better?"

"There are _no_ words." Crowley set his glasses down on the table beside the settee, drifting over to Aziraphale and tapping first the tops of the glasses together and then the bases. "Cheers."

"Here's mud in your eye."

"Always a weird saying that one, wasn't it? Still not entirely sure what it means." Crowley resumed his previous pose upon the settee, kicking his boots up on the arm and lazing his head back across the one opposing. He sipped from the wine again, sighed softly to feel it working its magic on the otherwise sharp corners of his mind.

"Well now, don't keep me in suspense." Aziraphale stated, settling down in his study chair and swinging it about so as to face Crowley more the properly. "Tell me how things went today!"

Crowley rounded off the days events, keeping it strictly mum as to just how much of that day had been spent talking at length about Aziraphale, of course. The angel observed the shift in Crowley's voice as he talked. He seemed, for the most part, genuinely enthusiastic and excited for the work he had done. The people he had met, in particular. It pleased Aziraphale greatly to see him as such; to have taken pride in the doing of something good and decent.

"There's this one old bird there." Crowley was saying, having already topped up his now second glass of wine. Aziraphale was still properly savouring the first, of course. "Fantastic old nutter."

"Oh, yes?"

"Gretchen her name is. French gal. Great sense of humour. Sharp as all get out." Crowley chuckled, slung his arm back behind his head. Toes waggling from side to side in that way he did when his energy levels were up. "We're allowed to take the clients on field trips, so long as two workers are present. So, you know what I did?" He sat up, staring ever so brightly and enthusiastically at Aziraphale. "I took her and one of the other workers out to the _Ritz_ for lunch."

Aziraphale felt just the slightest flicker of something stirring in his chest, which he surmised to be a not quite altogether angelic feeling. It surprised him, actually, to hear that Crowley had taken person's other than himself to the Ritz. That was sort of... well, it _wasn't_ officially, not _really_, they had never had a discussion in which they openly declared the Ritz to be, exclusively the place in which_ they_ went to dine. It's not as though Aziraphale had specifically requested that Crowley not take anyone else there. There were no rules about such things. And why on earth should there be?

It was reasonable for Crowley to have done so. So why then did it make Aziraphale feel, ever so slightly, betrayed?

"Well." He said, taking great strains in keeping that most inappropriate emotion out of his tone. A careful observer might have noted however, that his smile was not quite reaching his eyes, such as it usually did. "She must have felt_ very_ special. I'm surprised that your workplace allowed you to spring for such a thing."

"Eh. Used a bit of magic to pull it off. Worth it though. Said she'd _never_ be able to afford to go to any place like that." Crowley might be forgiven for being a little vague on this occasion. He knew Aziraphale well enough to pick up on his otherwise subtle variations of mood. He simply wasn't attending to it such as he might ordinarily have done; believing that Aziraphale was only likely to have seen the positives in Crowley having done such an uncharacteristically good thing. He did in fact believe that Aziraphale would have been proud, rather than near steaming with some manner of angelic passive aggressive covetousness. "Even managed to get her up for a dance. She's got pretty good form, the old girl. Can't dance for long. Got some issues with her hips and what not. Still, not a bad shuffle."

Aziraphale's smile flickered out as though it were a candle flame snuffed from existence by a passing draft. Something else drifted up from deep inside of him. _Envy._ Most definitely not an angelic feeling. Very contrarily not at_ all_ angelic.

"You danced with her at the Ritz?

"Mmm-hmm. Said it'd been years since she'd gone dancing. Even sprung for a decent bottle of bubbles for her. She'll be the talk of the nursing home tonight, nothing surer." Crowley sipped from his wine, gazed up at the ceiling. Smiled ignorantly to himself as, just across from him, an angel was embarking on a rather intense and protracted existential crisis. "You know, I wasn't sure at first, but I think I'm actually going to like it there. The girls I'm working with seem a solid bunch. Chatty Cathy's the lot of them, but hey, like I can talk." He swung up in his seat again, bringing his feet down to the floor and pointed to Aziraphale, who whipped a smile back onto his face with the sort of speed which might put a peregrine falcon to sour lament. "Oh, speaking of which, got a slight change of plans for tonight."

"Oh, yes?" Aziraphale said, his smile becoming all the more tight lipped as he got to imagining that Crowley had invited his new friend Gretchen along to dinner and had her waiting, hopefully with a window cracked, in the Bentley for them. It would not have surprised him in the least.

"Some of the girls I work with have invited me out tonight. Spot of karaoke."

"Oh. ... Are you going to sing?"

"I might." Crowley frowned at Aziraphale's somewhat pained expression. "Why are you pulling that face? I've got a good voice! I was always elected tenor whenever we had to sing the hymns back in Heaven!"

Aziraphale waved a hand placatingly. "No, no, you mistake me. You do indeed have a lovely voice. It's just... well..." He gave a light airy shrug, doing his utmost to pretend as though he wasn't bothered by any of this (_though he, for whatever the reason, clearly was_). "I never supposed karaoke to really be your thing. You've never shown much interest before."

"Yeah, well, _you're_ the one always telling me to start trying new things. Besides, there'll be alcohol there. Everything's tolerable along with a good stiff drink or two."

_Or, most likely, a six or a seven, knowing you._ "I see." Aziraphale murmured, this time entirely unable to prevent the strain from creeping into his voice. He flicked some imaginary lint off of one of his knees, feeling that perhaps it was as a result of his having had to let go of some of his books that day, which was resulting in this uncharacteristic feeling of malaise. "So... I shall be attending dinner... in the company of _myself_ this evening."

Of course Crowley could hardly ignore this. It was, par for the course, just about as close to a temper tantrum as the otherwise composed angel was capable. "Don't sulk, they said to invite you along. Wanted to meet you. Someone only knows _why_."

This struck Aziraphale as being a little odd. Why indeed would Crowley's work mates extend an offer for him to have been included in their evening? Let alone feel that some 'friend' of Crowley's was someone that they had any reason at all to meet. He glanced at Crowley sidelong, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"Have you been telling stories again?"

Crowley never much wasted time with looking ashamed of himself. Now was no exception. "Don't have much else to talk about besides you. Girls said they had food at the bar. Maybe we could just go sub-fancy for one evening, eh?" He gave Aziraphale that usual long, lingering look which more often than not got him his way when he really turned the heat up. "They've got some fancy-arse cocktails there from what I hear. Got a _Vieux Carré_ on the menu. Love yourself a _Vieux Carré_, you."

Aziraphale did indeed love a_ Vieux Carré_. It had all the zest and perfectly balanced components of a Manhatten with just that little extra flavoursome sugary punch. It had been quite a while since he had partaken of one; with the exception of a rather knockkneed interpretation Crowley had attempted one evening, which fairly much amounted to rather expensive rocket fuel.

_What the hell,_ he thought. _If Crowley can push himself out of his comfort zone, then the least I can do is shake up my own routine for a bit. Even if it is whilst sitting in a peanut strewn bar, listening to an endless parade of excessively more drunken humans belting out dreadful twentieth century songs._

"Well, I'm game if you are." Aziraphale said, a smile of far more genuine warmth sliding back up onto his face. Crowley clapped his hands together, bouncing up out of his seat and slugging back the last gulp of wine remaining in his glass.

"That's the spirit. Should be a right laugh, eh? Just an FYI, you go by Alex where they're concerned." He waved a hand airily, uncaring as he picked up his glasses and slid them back on, depositing the empty wine glass in their place. "Oh, and I told them that we're partners so just, you know, _roll_ with it."

Now this made Aziraphale just about choke on his own last sip of wine and he was required to put a hand to his chin to wipe up the few sputtered drops that had erupted from between his lips.

"You told them that we're _what?_"

"That we're... you know? Partners." Crowley fluffed up his collar, rolled his shoulders in a plainly careless manner. "In the... human, romantic sense."

"Why would you do that?" Aziraphale asked, genuinely and completely shocked by the demon's audacity. Concerned as well by it. The angels' thoughts were flying out in a hundred different directions; like a spattering of punch drunk doves loosed from a dark box with a plethora of cats swiping at their tail feathers. It aggravated him more so, that Crowley continued to look plaintively unbothered by what he himself viewed as being more than just a little bit of an impertinent act.

"Seemed the easiest way to explain it at the time, angel. Some of the staff heard me talking to you on the phone today and they sort of just..." He gave that insolent looking shrug again. That shrug which Aziraphale was really rather starting to take exception to. "-drew their own conclusions."

"Yeah... and you didn't think to attempt to amend those conclusions rather than... expand upon them?"

Now Crowley was the one who was starting to look annoyed. "They heard me call you_ angel_. What was I supposed to say? That you're _actually_ an angel?"

"You could have just said that we were _very_ good friends."

"Uh-huh." Crowley said, sarcastically. Giving Aziraphale a look which said that he fancied that the aforementioned angel was in fact being very, very stupid. "Very good friends who call each other_ angel._ They would have just taken that for me being in denial. And if there's one thing that Anthony J. Crowley does not stand for, it's denial." He thought about this a moment. "Well... denial and raspberry flavoured Pepsi, that's the two I stand strong on."

Aziraphale shelved his irritation just long enough to share in the much deserved increduility surrounding raspberry flavored Pepsi. "I _know_, what is with that?"

"I don't _know_! An abomination is what it is. Had to have come from your... previous side _that_ one."

"I was quite convinced it was from _your_ side! Right up there with criminal defense lawyers and airport security guards."

Crowley dashed his fingers through the air, drawing a metaphorical veil over this treck off topic. "Anywhoo, it just seemed the easiest way to explain our... relationship so that they would understand it." He put his hands in his pockets, gave the angel a little look before casting his eyes away, all but scuffing his toe against the carpet in a somewhat categorically typical gesture of awkwardness. "I mean... if two human males spent all their time together like we do, going out to dinner, listening to classical music, having pictures of each other in their wallets-"

Aziraphale brought a finger up sharply. "You're the only one who has a picture in your wallet."

"Oh, that's right. You use the clear pocket for your frequent diners club card." Crowley ammended, trying and failing to not feel offended by this. You would think he would at least have slotted in higher than a bloody plastic card which might, with enough points, score Aziraphale a free meal once every couple of months or so.

"Why couldn't you have just told them the _truth_?" Aziraphale asked again, shock still with the sudden dawning realization that he was about to come face to face with a whole mess of people who believed that he and Crowley were likely... carnal with one another. He felt such a pure rush of embarrassment at this that he was quite certain his entire flushing face could be seen from the international space station.

Crowley gaped at Aziraphale incredulously. "The _truth_? What_ truth_? Oh, hello new human work colleagues. Yes, I am a seven thousand year old demon who has formed no other significant attachments to anyone exempting a seven thousand year old angel, whom I met in the Garden of Eden whilst tempting mankind to commit the original sin. Heaven and Hell assigned us to earth respectively and we bonded over the fact that we were the only two creatures who could possibly understand one another's situation and we both share a mutual appreciation for fine dining, expensive wine and classical music. Would you kindly pass the sugar, please?!"

"Well not _that_ truth obviously." Aziraphale snapped, tugging a white, monogramed handerchief from out of his pocket and dabbing bullet sized drops of sweat from the back of his neck.

"Then _what_ truth, Aziraphale? Huh?" Crowley looked limp and exhausted. And sad. His mouth was turned down at the corners in that ever so heart breaking way Aziraphale had so rarely borne witness to and could so barely cope with. "What truth am I supposed to be telling them?"

"Well... well that we're..." Aziraphale stopped, stammering over whatever unknown words might have otherwise made their way out of his mouth. He didn't know what he was going to say. He didn't know what truth was _true_. "-that we're... friends."

It was a_ lie_. Oh, it was a _terrible_ lie. For they were friends, nothing more could be certain. But to say that they were _simply_ friends? There was nothing _simple_ about whatever it was that they shared. He was whitewashing what they both clearly recognized as being a connection that was vastly and indisputably more intense, more passionate, more significant.

He knew this. Aziraphale knew it all too well. But he couldn't... he simply couldn't abide the classifying of whatever their relationship was as... romantic love. The implications that came with such a thing were altogether too staggering. He wasn't able to process them. The very thought of it evoked a terror in him so profound that he felt it might rankle the borders of his very soul into irreparable pieces.

For he _did_ love Crowley. He loved him with a propensity which extended far beyond the means by which a natural angelic love might be accepted. He loved him in ways he did not know how to express; to convey by some means more tangible, more meaningful than an earthly smile.

But what welled up in Aziraphale, stronger still even than that near all consuming love, were the walls which the Virtues themselves had installed within his angelic soul. A celestial fail safe, one might say. And that fail safe was currently bringing the shutters smartly down and pressing flashing red buttons on every available control panel.

He was compelled, by the strongest and basest angelic instinct; prohibiting all means by which temptation might gain traction within his soul. It was a cruel thing and it held sway over him, much as his addiction to cigarettes had once done.

Aziraphale knew full well, that his deference would have served as much as an insult to Crowley, as his once having referred to their relationship as 'fraternizing' had done. And indeed, the demon responded to the angel's categorization of 'friends' with a disgusted scoff. As though something foul smelling had been placed on the table under his sensitive nose and he was due to be spending some much unwanted time in the company of it.

"_Friends._" He said, emotionlessly. Looking somewhow more exhausted by the minute. Aziraphale for his part, couldn't even bring himself to continue to make eye contact. It was impossible to do or say anything right, when those enormous eyes of Crowley's were all but staring into his soul.

"That's what we are. As I recall _you're_ the one who insisted on it in the first place. I can't see why my affirming it now should be of annoyance to you."

He would not have blamed Crowley for lunging across the room and slapping him for this one. Even to Aziraphale, the purposeful ignorance of the statement was an awful, injurious act. But the demon did nothing quite so dramatic; though the comment had indeed wounded and infuriated him. He kept it all tucked in tight, allowing coldness instead to seep on out.

"No. I guess you can't see it, can you?" He started walking backwards towards the door, twisting his lips into a thin, angry little line. Neither of them could see it, of course, but the yellow of his eyes had swallowed up never every available inch of what had minutes earlier, been white. "Never could."

He slammed his back through the doors, letting in the night air and a handful of small, dried leaves. They fluttered impertinously over the stoop, lighting upon the floor where the demon had only moments earlier been standing. A demon who, without even the offer of his perfunctory lazy wave, marched himself over to where the Bentley was half parked up over the curb, magicked away the clamp which had been affixed to its left wheel and tore off into the night, leaving in his wake, a small, unneeded sweeping job and an angel who found that the task served as a good distraction from ever the more lamentable thoughts he might otherwise have been occupied with.

**~X~**

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**A/N: **I remember these chapters well. SO angsty :/ Thanks as always for reading, favouriting, following, you guys are fantastic :) Feel free to flick on over to the next part if you please you!

All my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER: **I did not come up with Good Omens, sadly. A shame, for I would be wealthy and popular and very much as content as a fat cat with a full bowl of cream and canary feathers protruding from its mouth.

**A/N: **Prithee gentles, might I ask a small favour? Could you, in your role as the reader, kindly partake of the following chapter? It makes everyone on stage feel very the much appreciated :) Now, speak the lines trippingly!

**(Every character in The Three Stages):** We are wasting our time up here...

**MadamMortis:** No! No, I'm sure that they love all the... talking. :/

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**~X~**

_**February 8th - 7:25am**_

**_A.Z Fell & Co - London Soho..._**

Aziraphale had never been good with his mobile phone. It was a new addition to his life and one that he hadn't, as such, learned as of yet to naturally integrate into his well established and much practiced daily routine.

Which was why he was hardly at all surprised to find, when he checked it that following morning, that the phone had at some point run out of power and switched itself off. He might not have checked it at all, if not for the worry he had been nursing concerns Crowley and their terrible argument the night before.

He hadn't called; not the bookshop at least, which had got Aziraphale to wondering as to whether or not he might have tried the mobile phone device instead.

He sighed, lending a hypothetical hand to the back of his own wrist as he rustled about in his desk drawer, searching for the charging cord that Crowley had shown him how to use. He plugged it into one of the walls ancient power points and slipped the delicate little steel tip into the base of the phone. It took a while for enough electricity to run into the device for him to be able to switch it on, but when he was finally able to do so, he had himself quite the shock.

It seems that Crowley _had_ tried to call him during the night. It would seem he had tried to call him a total of_ twenty-five times_, in fact. There were quite a few voice mail messages too, but the fact that Crowley had tried to call him so many times naturally set Aziraphale to panicking. He immediately set the mobile phone down, grabbed up his rotary phone from the desk and dialled Crowley's home number. It went straight through to his answering machine.

"Are you there? Listen, I'm ever so sorry, I didn't go and plug this stupid mobile phone device in and it switched itself off overnight. Please give me a call as soon as you're able. Just to let me know you're all right. Good bye."

As an afterthought, he tried dialling Crowley's mobile phone. Perhaps he was out? Imagine the angel's surprise when he heard a corresponding ringing coming from behind him and turned to see a very ragged, half-dead looking demon, dressed in boxers, singlet and traditionally high riding socks, passed out on the corner settee, in the company of his very favourite green security blanket. The ringing didn't at all aid in rousing the demon, who looked to be so deeply unconscious that he wasn't even snoring. Aziraphale chanced he wasn't likely to be _breathing_; which wasn't at all unusual with preternatural beings.

Relieved that the demon hadn't in fact gotten himself abducted by a band of vindictive agents from Hell, Aziraphale hung up the phone and sank back into his chair; rubbing a hand wearily across the lines of his forehead. He picked up his mobile again, clicked over to his message bank and held the tiny, flat device up to his ear. What followed was an increasingly bizarre series of voice mail messages, left by what was quite obviously a very drunk, very emotional Anthony J. Crowley and which told a story that Aziraphale could hardly feel sorry for not having been around to bear witness to:

* * *

**Message 1: (8:45pm)** Oh, hey. So... so, um... the girls confiscated my phone because they said- because I was mad at you I shouldn't be allowed to have my phone while I'm drinking because then I might... drunk dial, or somefink. Anyway, I miracled my phone back and now I guess I'm just... doing just what they said I was going to do! **(Here, there was some soft laughter, then some rattly sniffling sounds)** I don't remember why I called you. I'm still mad at you. You probably don't even know why I'm mad at you. Oh, get this! I sang 'So what' tonight by Pink. You know that one, it goes **(Aziraphale was forced then to endure some extremely drunken, slurring near renditions of what might have comprised some of the lines of the infamous girl power song by the artist known formally as Pink)** I felt very empowered when I was done and I think you should feel sad that I'm not gonna pay your rent anymore. Anyway, I'mma gonna go now. Just ordered another _Vieux Carré_. You would have_ loved_ these, FYI. **(Big smug slurping sounds)** Byyyeeee...

**Message 2: (9:11pm)** Aziraphale! Hey! Just wanted to let you know that I have gotten hit on three times tonight! Two were girls, one was a guy. They weren't very good looking. I don't think. The work girls say that I should... go home with someone else tonight. Teach you a lesson about treating me nicer. I won't be around forever, you know and... and you know what... you could do a lot worse. They say I'm a catch! I'm a catchy demon. But you... you keep on dropping the blessed _ball_, Aziraphale! You don't catch _anything_! Except for the small pox once, remember when you caught the small pox? You got all those big lumps all over the place. You wouldn't let me squeeze them. You were like '_No Crowley, I'm probably going to discorporate - boo-bee-boo-boo_!' Big Angel baby. I mean, who hasn't had the small pox in their time?_ I_ had the bubonic plague, but you didn't see _me_ making a big whiny deal about it. But anyway, listen, hey, are you listening? Okay, good. Listen... WOULD YOU CLOWNS SHUT THE HEAVEN UP?! I'M TRYING TO TELL ALEX SOMETHING IMPORTANT! **(Sound of a throat being cleared and a clank of what is clearly a shot glass hitting a bar top)** Anyway, you know, I'm not... just so you know, I'm not gonna go home and have the shagging with a human. That would be **(Makes a sound, the closest written approximation of which is 'Bleurk')** yucky. I just wanted you to know that I have got options. Bitch. **(Hangs up with short lived conviction and self assuredness)**

**Message 3: (9:36pm)** **(The conviction and self-assuredness having most assuredly worn off by this point, the only noises coming from the phone is a series of strangled, pathetic sobbing noises, interspersed with suspiciously meaty sounding hiccups)**

**Message 4: (9:48pm) (The not often witnessed sound of a demon sobbing like a baby can be plainly heard emanating at a frequency high enough to shatter both expensive crystal and eardrums alike)** Azz-zzi-zira-ph-ph-phale... I'm s-s-sorry I cuh-called you a bitch. You're not a bitch, your hair is s-so fluffy and you are so n-nice and your cologne has a smoky intimation which reminds me of that chair in that gentleman's club, the o-one with the soft leather in the smokers room. We had cigars in there, back in 1921, remember? In other news, I kuh-kinda wish I had my blanket right now because the footpath is so f-f-fucking cold.

**Message 5: (10:12pm)** Hey, Aziraphale. Did you know that the word 'winebibber' came from the 1520's and it means a person who drinks too much wine? So that means you and me, we're, we're, we're, you know, we're pretty much winebibbers. Wine sluts. Sluts for wine. Been annoying me for months that. Wine..._bibber_. It's still a stupid word. Not as stupid as bouillabaisse though. And not as stupid as you. Still not talking to you, by the way.

**Message 6: (10:21pm)** Hey, don't know if you tried calling or not. The girls confiscated my phone again. And my keys. Couldn't tell 'em that I can sober up to drive home so, you know... thought they were doing the right thing, hey? Had to leave Bentley out on the street. _The_ Bentley, not Bentley - its name isn't Bentley. I'm not one of those kooks who names their car. If I did, it would be something stylish like Raul Estenberg Tatenhop. Now I'm walking home in the dark. It's really dark out here. I'm not scared at all. I like spooky things. Even spooky things wearing grey shawls, which I'm pretty sure might be following me in a creepy looking hunch backed gait - _get the Heaven away from me you horrible old crone!_ **(The sounds of expensive snake skin boots slapping the tarmac can be distinctly heard, along with what is Crowley clearly on the verge of having an asthma attack).**

**Message 7 (10:55pm)**:** (Sounds of garbled, especially pathetic sounding sobbing)** Aziraphale, I tripped over and fell into a bush. Then I threw up in the bush. ... and a little bit... on a hedgehog, I think. He's not happy. The hedgehog, I mean... at least I think it's a he. I don't know. I don't really know how to sex a hedgehog. Well not _sex_ a hedgehog you know, that would be weirder and grosser than sexing a human. But figuring out _what sex_ the hedgehog is. Maybe you roll it onto its back or something and stick its quills in the ground so it doesn't run away. Hey, wasn't there a poem about that? The hedgehog can't be buggered at all? How do hedgehogs have sex, ya think? Ya reckon they do it missionary style? Seems terribly romantic of 'em. Anyway, I think you may need to come and pick me up. I'm sorta stuck in this bush, with my legs up in the air. This seems to be an especially molestable position to be caught in. Hopefully no service people come along ... wait, you _can't_ come and pick me up. You don't have a car and even if you stole one, which you _wouldn't_ because you're a _stinking angel_, you wouldn't know how to drive it. I really need to teach you how to drive. I mean, what if both my arms fall off? You'd need to learn then.

**Message 8: (11:05pm) (Nothing but a piercing emulation of the Cape Rain Frog scream, which Aziraphale simply deletes and moves on to the next message.)**

**Message 9: (11:10pm)** Hey. Just realized that if I can miracle back my phone, why the fuck didn't I just go ahead and do that with my keys? Got the keys, managed to fall out of the bush. Sorry my hedgehog, friend. Do enjoy the rest of your evening. Sorry about the chunks of salsa stuck inbetween your quills. I'mma walk back to where I left the Bentley. Gonna drink drive, just cause I know it'd make you super mad. Might even run down some witches cones. Can I hear a wahoo?

**Message 10: (11:31pm)** Made it home but now I can't get in my door because the girls took my keys. Can you please run my spare keys over for me? Take the bus or something? I'm just going to have a little sleep on the floor while I wait. Don't take too long, it's really cold and dark out here in the hall and I'm scared of ghosts. Did I ever tell you I'm scared of ghosts? I don't even know if they exist or not, but I wouldn't put it past God to pull a swifty like that.

**Message 11: (11:47pm)** Forgot, had my keys the whole time. It's how I drove the Bentley, duh. Come to think of it, didn't really _need_ the keys to drive the Bentley in the first place. Could have just used magic. Man, I am _stupid-dumb_ when I'm drunk. Anyway, going to take a shower. Got leaves and vomit on myself and all sorts. Hey, remember that time back in the garden of Eden when you pulled all those twigs out of my hair? That was a very special time. I treasure it. But clearly you don't treasure _me_ because I've left you hundreds of voice mail messages and you haven't got-gotten-got, you know- called back to me! Even when I was out on the street, passed out in a bush in a pile of my own chunder! I could have been _dead_ for all you knew! _I could have been getting raped by a scary hunchback!_ **(Wimpey, very un-demony like desolate sounding sob)** You know, let's just go ahead and say that I _am_ dead. Ha! I'm _dead_. Dead _and_ raped by a hunchback. In that order. How does that make you feel, Aziraphale? I'm dead and you didn't even know, because you don't check your bloody phone! I am NEVER talking to you again, you are the worst friend and an even worse angel! Now you'll have no one to talk to! You'll have to make a puppet out of a sock and a piece of string, tied around your hand. You can talk to your new sock friend when you get lonely; take Sock Crowley out for dinner at the Ritz. You know what, actually _don't_ call your new sock friend Sock Crowley, I don't want you even using my name anymore! Call it Sock Puppet or Englebert Humpersock for all I care!

**Message 12: (12:17pm)** Me again. I just realized that maybe the reason you're not answering your phone is because something happened to you. I'm coming over to check.

**Message 13: (1:13pm)** Standing over you right now and you're asleep. Fast asleep. You look so peaceful when you're sleeping. You also look extra stupid with a big handlebar moustache drawn on your upper lip with permanent marker. Oh, still not talking to you. I'm gonna go sleep on your couch but I'll be outta here before you even get up in the morning, so... don't bother waking me. Ciao.

* * *

Well, Aziraphale didn't quite know whether to bust for laughing at what he had just heard or to simply sit there with his mouth hanging open. He wiped a finger across his upper lip and sure enough it came back with a little streak of black marker across it.

Rather than go and get angry about it, Aziraphale resolved to simply let the marker moustache go (for the demon did have every reason to be angry with him) and instead made his way into the kitchen and set the kettle to boiling. He made a cup of strong coffee with just the lightest dash of milk and one sugar (_Crowley's standard_) and brought it back into the study area along with a couple of dry biscuits on a plate. He knelt by the settee, taking Crowley's crooked glasses off of his face and gently stroking the side of his _(rather white and bloodless looking_) cheek.

"Wake up, my dear." He whispered, brushing his thumb in a slightly firmer circle. Crowley's eyes moved from side to side beneath the lids, the eyelashes fluttering. A sliver of yellow appeared and the demon gave a loud, startling gasp as oxygen started flowing once more back into his blood stream. He smacked his tongue around what had to have been a very dry mouth, blinked at Aziraphale with some confusion. Groaned then and sank his head back into the arm of the settee, rubbing at his aching temples.

"I'm guessing..._ I_ did that, huh?"

"Oh... right." Aziraphale said, remembering the moustache and waving a hand over his face so as to clear it away. "Never the mind. I gather you were a little cross with me."

"There's no_ little_ about it. And no past tense either." He accepted the coffee and the biscuits nonetheless. Took a good old sip and all but shoved an entire Ginger nut into his maw. Coffee and ginger biscuits were his go to combination for dealing with a nasty hangover. The ginger in the biscuits helped to settle his stomach. Aziraphale knew this, of course. They had been getting drunk together a very long time. "I'm still cross with you."

"Can't we talk it out?" Aziraphale asked, finding his legs getting rather sore and wobbly from being crouched by the settee as long as he had. He eased himself up and moved just so as to perch on the edge of the couch but was surprised to see Crowley climb immediately to his feet. Still a little wobbly. But determined, it seemed, not to remain for any longer in the angel's company.

"Actually... I'm thinking I probably... probably shouldn't see you for a while."

This hit Aziraphale with quite as much deafening shock as might a sledgehammer if levelled directly into the side of his head. He thought for a moment that Crowley might have been joking, such was the inherent alarm he felt whence considering the alternative.

"What... what do you mean?"

Crowley, in an act which seemed to be plucked entirely from Aziraphale's own repertoire, kept his eyes directed away from the angel. "I mean, you live_ your_ life, I live _my_ life and we just... have some space from each other. That's what you were wanting in the first place, wasn't it? Space? Some 'you' time?"

"Well... yes, I suppose so but I... well, I really only meant an evening or so." Aziraphale felt as though something were unwinding inside of him. And he was grasping; grasping so desperately to wind it back in. To have it make sense again. He tried to smile. It was what he did, when his heart was otherwise breaking. "How long do you propose that we... not see each other for?"

Crowley shrugged, chewing another lump of biscuit in the corner of his dry mouth. "Don't know. A while, at least. I just..." And now he looked at Aziraphale and the angel rather wished he hadn't felt the need. The eyes were heart breaking and painful and beautiful and he wouldn't_ see them_. Not for however long Crowley meant to keep him at arms length. "I need some time away from you."

Aziraphale smiled kindly. Inside, he was screaming. An incomparable pain stole through his chest; little different to what he supposed a burning blade might feel if it had been stabbed hard into where his heart was located and dragged across the length of his body. Of course, he let only little of this show.

"If... that's what you want. Take all the time you need. I will be here whenever you're ready." He stood up and went to the laundry. Brought out the freshly laundered work uniform that he had popped into the dryer earlier that morning. Handed both the neatly folded bundle of clothes, the blanket and Crowley's glasses back to him. "Here. I put it through a fluff cycle. It's much softer now. Do be careful with it. You don't want to be out of pocket."

Crowley nodded, taking up his glasses and sliding them on before accepting the bundle of clothes. His hand brushed to Aziraphale's as he did and the angel reflexively lifted his index finger to stroke, quite unconsciously, against the demon's. Crowley pulled back as though he had been burned.

"_Don't_, Aziraphale." He warned and it was quite enough to push the pain that Aziraphale was feeling on the inside ever so briefly to the surface. Which didn't help Crowley, whose own face wrenched to bear witness to the exposed face of Aziraphale's true inner workings. The angel turned away, pulled his lips in tight to keep whatever noises might have been about to come out, in. With everything he had, he forced up another smile. His eyes were blurry though. He hadn't been swift enough to keep the tears from coming.

"I'm sorry. So sorry. Please. Do take care of yourself."

"Yeah. You too." Crowley's lower jaw jutted off firm to the side, his own means at maintaining some slim control over his emotions. He gulped the last of the coffee and handed both the empty mug and the saucer back to Aziraphale. "Thanks. Um... see you."

Aziraphale gave a little nod, managing to hold onto that soft smile just long enough for Crowley to make his way out the door. No one was watching then, so it was all well and good to let the strain fall out of his face, to let the tears drop down out of his eyes and to let that hideous, hateful smile fall away.

"Goodbye, my dear." He said, kneading his hands together as he lowered himself slowly into his favourite chair. He knew he needed to go and turn the sign over in the doorway. Raise the blinds and let the day and the inevitable spattering of customers in. But he needed a moment. Perhaps a couple of moments first.

And then, he would do just as Crowley had suggested and find a means to somehow go on with living his life.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you as always for joining me, lovely people :) Don't be afraid to concrit, comment in general if that is something which you feel comfortable doing. Until next time keep smiling everyone and as usual, with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	13. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER: **You can't just shoot children! (Got no idea what that has to do with a disclaimer, but it seems a fairly valid point we should all observe. Also, I've written what seems like billions of these in a very short space of time, and I'm getting a little bit shot of it, to be honest.) ... That being said; don't own Good Omens, please don't take my shit.

**A/N: **I apologise in advance for anyone who is receiving updates for new chapters and have found that there is in fact, only one actual new update with new content. This is because I have been subdividing up all the existing content of the Three Stages to make it a much more balanced read, with each chapter about the same (and far the more modest) length.

It's actually quite a messy process over on AO3, but here, I haven't updated as much, so it shouldn't cause too many issues. Just wanted to let anyone who is following know, because I imagine it can get a bit confusing.

That being said, here's the last bit of the previous content and after this, there will in fact be a NEW chapter :) Thanks again for your patience everyone, and hope that you enjoy!

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****~X~****

_**~February-April, 2019~ **_

**_A.Z Fell & Co - London Soho..._**

It wasn't like they hadn't fought before.

They were two clever, opinionated individuals, who had, until recent times, stood on opposite ends of the celestial chess board. They'd butted heads more times than Aziraphale could count. They had spent time apart on account of these minor upsets, though never for very long. They got themselves in far too much trouble and with far too much regularity for this ongoing abstinence to ever make much sense.

Time was precious. The time that they shared together was even more precious. And Aziraphale was swiftly learning that time away from Crowley, especially in the days following the Armage-Don't-even-bother (_as Crowley had taken to calling it)_ was completely and utterly unbearable.

The longest time they had ever spent apart (with the exception of a certain spat in the 1800's which had lingered for a record century of profligate silent treatment) was when Crowley had, for whatever the reason, decided to take a nap in the 1700's, which spanned right on through the first half of the century.

He hadn't been angry with Aziraphale; it was simply that the humans were doing much too good of a job on his behalf and he'd been feeling a little run down. He was quite unsurprised to find that his presence had not in fact been noticed by the legions of the damned _(he had gotten up at least once during his nap to use the lavatory and to flick off some paperwork, stealing credit for a number of things he gleaned from a newspaper he stole off of a neighbours porch_) but was ever the more concerned by his not being able to pick up Aziraphale's scent anywhere.

It took quite a bit of digging, but he had of course then managed to track the stupid idiot down to France, just in time to prevent him from having his flock headed noggin lopped clean off of his shoulders.

Aziraphale had of course been ever so grateful for the rescue. Grateful in turn, because he had not actually _seen_ Crowley in some fifty years and had taken to wondering as to whether the demon had been called back to Hell on a more permanent basis. Or if something fouler had in fact occurred. Thoughts that their arrangement may have been unearthed by Crowley's superiors was never far from Aziraphale's mind.

It was dreadful, to worry for someone with such exquisite propensity of feeling. Travelling abroad for crepes seemed a most useful distraction, he had thought, though he had of course deliberately kept those particulars from Crowley later on. The demon hadn't seen fit to leave him a message explaining just where and what he was doing for five decades, so he could simply sit pretty on the rather flimsy explanation of Aziraphale being thrown in the Bastille all for want of a semi-decent lunch.

This time, however, things were different. What served ever so uniquely in representation of this was that when they had bickered in the past, it had been Aziraphale whom had kept his distance. Crowley had always, without fail, been the one to work his way back to the angel's side first. It had been this way for over six thousand years. It was a _consistent_. Something Aziraphale could hold onto; find reassurance in the knowing that sooner, rather than later, Crowley would take that first step back towards reconciliation.

A month passed. And then another.

No word.

Nothing.

Aziraphale truly wanted to keep to his word and give Crowley the space he had requested. Indeed, it seemed to him a very important thing to respect the wishes of others; in particular someone he cared for deeply.

It was, of course, what a good angel would have done.

But then Aziraphale reminded himself that Heaven had tossed him over to the metaphorical scrap yard some months prior, shelved his compunctions with a most certainly un-angel like 'Fuck it' and, post imbibing an entire bottle of 2007 Gaja Barbaresco one evening, bundled the rotary phone into his lap and dialled Crowley's flat.

He was a little tipsy and he hadn't quite expected the demon to pick up, which was why he was so startled by the call actually being answered.

"What?"

Aziraphale near fumbled the phone onto the floor, such was his surprise. And not even the wine was quite enough to sand the edges off of the anxiety he was now suddenly experiencing. "Oh, hello. ...Wasn't quite sure I'd get you, to be honest."

"Gone part time at work. Increased shifts. Sleepovers and the like." He didn't sound any more grumpy than he usually did, which Aziraphale took to be a good sign. Crowley's phone manner had always been decidedly brusque. This was nothing if not the norm. "Speaking of work, I'm just getting ready to head in now. You'll have to make it quick."

"Ah, right. Okay." Aziraphale cleared his throat. Realized, as he did, that he wasn't entirely sure as to why he had called Crowley in the first place. Only that he had _wanted_ to do so. Had _wanted_ to hear his voice. "Well... I just... I was wondering if you... if you'd had enough time away yet."

Crowley didn't speak for a moment. When he had, it was in a voice every bit as firm as Aziraphale had ever heard it. With that oft times depth of maturity the demon was able to whip out of corner pocket on the odd occasion it was required.

"If I had, I would have called you to talk. Clearly I haven't."

Aziraphale stammered, aware that Crowley was likely only mere seconds away from terminating the call. He couldn't let him go just yet. Not yet. "Well, you see, the thing is that... I just... I wanted to tell you that... I'm sorry, Crowley. Please." You might have heard a pin drop, the silence on the other end of the line was so absolute. "I can't stand knowing that you're angry with me. All the more that I... that I hurt you. These last few months without you have been just awful. I can only stand my own company for so long, you know." He lowered his voice, bringing down quite as much of his walls as he possibly could in the process. Spoke deeply, if minimalistically, from the heart. "I miss you terribly."

Crowley was silent on the other end. So silent in fact that Aziraphale feared he might have already hung up on him. He was just about to call it quits himself and surrender the phone back to the cradle, when the demon spoke up at long last:

"Are you sorry that we had a fight? Or are you sorry for _what_ we had a fight about?"

Aziraphale was somewhat confused by this. He might not have been if he hadn't been as intoxicated as he was. The wine, at least in this situation, had not worked well in his favour. "Well I'm... I'm sorry that we had a fight, of course."

"Right. Gotta get going or I'll be running late."

It had clearly been the wrong answer. Aziraphale tried calling out to him, desperate to take another stab at making amends but the demon it seemed, was having none of it. He hung up the phone, leaving Aziraphale at the smug mercy of the cold, dispassionate beeping of the dial tone. It seemed to him, quite suddenly, the very definition of loneliness given form. That erstwhile and dissonant _'beep-beep-beep'_.

He was terribly confused. And terribly cross with himself. And also, in that vein, terribly well shot of having dinner by _himself_ most every night of the week.

Aziraphale was accustomed to eating out alone from time to time; it was how he had gotten friendly with a great deal of the chefs in the restaurants he frequented. And it wasn't as though he was embarrassed by such a thing. But he had grown used to having Crowley's company, especially of late and to gaze over at an empty chair night after night had him take serious considerations into whether he might actually do as a drunken Crowley had suggested and fashion a new friend for himself out of an old sock and a piece of string. It could hardly have been sadder than _this._

Desperate times. Times in which it was ever so difficult in which to rest easy for even but a moment. He felt, ever constant, that terrible, heavy weight of Crowley's unhappiness pressing down upon his shoulders. It mattered to him far more in fact, than Heaven's disapproval ever did. Heaven after all could not look at him with those eyes. Could not offer in turn that which Crowley was so effortlessly able to provide him with. That true, unconditional, incomparable companionship.

Oh, it was like having a limb ripped out. And learning how to function again without it.

It would seem, however, that it was not just Aziraphale having this onerous time of things. He might have thought himself stranded alone on the veritable island that was his loneliness until one night, not a week following his disastrous drunken phone call, he was making his way back up the road to the bookshop after yet another dinner in his own, ever the more begrudged, company.

It was not a restaurant which he habitually frequented. Those contained far too many memories of Crowley and had become notoriously painful in which to linger these days. As such, he returned to the shop by way of a path he was not accustomed to routinely traveling. He was distracted, as he so often was with his thoughts and almost missed what happened next.

Crowley's Bentley was parked on the side of the road, tucked in just around the corner from the bookshop. The driver's side door was open and Crowley was standing on the exposed lip, arms resting on the cars roof and chin in turn resting upon his hands. He was staring up the road, turning his head ever so often from side to side. Waiting, it seemed, for Aziraphale to appear from any one of the usual directions.

He might have been well hidden, if not for the fact that Aziraphale's path that night had taken him right up behind where the Bentley was parked. He himself didn't speak. He just watched, feeling some warmth leach back into the cavern of his chest, which had felt ever so cold these past, agonizing weeks.

Crowley; keeping an eye on him.

Just as he always done.

Aziraphale was struck by the overwhelming need to go to him then. To pull him into his arms and hold him tight; give every ounce of pressure required to make up for all those hugs that Crowley had to have been missing. Had to have been _needing_. He took a step forward. The slightest breeze blew on past him. Crowley's head snapped to the side. His nostrils twitched.

Suddenly, he was swinging himself down into the car with such speed it might have put a hyperactive orangutan to shame. Aziraphale had barely time to open his mouth before, with a squeal of burning rubber, the Bentley's pedal was pressed direct to the metal and the vintage car shot off down the street, almost taking out everything which might have had the misfortune to be either on the road, on the sidewalk or indeed to have simply existed right then and there in near conjunction to what was a clearly, very the much rattled demon.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale yelled, running out onto the street, watching as the Bentley's rear lights got further away. A lick of pure irritation strobed the edges of his celestial soul. He'd had _quite enough_ by this stage. "Oh..." He did his very best not to swear. Somewhat succeeded. "Sod this."

He snapped his fingers. A moment later, he was installed in his regular perch in the passenger seat of the Bentley. Crowley was glaring out the windshield with such intensity that Aziraphale was quite surprised to find the glass still in one piece and not littered with thousands of tiny hairline cracks.

"Crowley!" He snapped and the demon near jumped out of his human skin, yanking the wheel hard to the right and nearly veering into oncoming traffic.

"Fucking heaven!" He exclaimed, managing, due in no small part to his demonic reflexes, to right the vehicle just in time to prevent a catastrophic and most likely discorporating inducing collision. Satisfied that the car was back in the correct lane and that all their limbs were still in place, Crowley fettered out a deep, slow breath, casting a then foul look in Aziraphale's direction. "Warn a body before you go and do something like that! For... someone's sake!"

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, pressing his palm firmly into the roof of the car. Why Crowley couldn't install seat belts was really rather beyond him. Probably figured it would ruin the 'original aesthetic' of the vehicle or some such thing. "I didn't mean to startle you but you were driving away so quickly I couldn't think what else to do."

"Surprised you didn't just miracle a rake down in front of the car." Crowley grumbled, lips twisted to form what was rather an unattractive expression on an otherwise conventionally attractive face. He tilted his head back, conceding, it seemed, temporary defeat. "Well, you got me trapped here now, so. Talk."

"I don't know what to say, Crowley." Aziraphale gazed out the window, at the traffic whipping by. It had been impulsive, to have miracled himself into the car such as he had. Now he was here, he didn't quite know what to do about it. He hadn't planned things out this far in advance. "Every time I try to apologize to you, I only seem to make things worse."

"Because you're being purposefully ignorant." Crowley said bluntly. Aziraphale did not contest it. He knew, full well, that it was true. "You know, and not too far below the surface mind you, precisely what this is all about. But you're pretending not to. And it shits me to tears, Aziraphale."

"Well if it's the truth you want, then that is precisely what I shall give you." He took his hand down off of the bar, turning to face Crowley more completely. Made himself be strides more courageous than he'd ever reason to be in the past. Nothing had felt quite so terrifying as this. Nothing, however, seemed to have ever been more important. Not even the end of the world had caused his hands to start to tremble such as this. They had_ never_ trembled. Not in all the time he had existed. His convictions and his assuredness in those convictions had always been incontestable.

Now... now, he felt himself truly and unequivocally at great risk and it was with enormous strength of personal will that he pushed past those ageless and demonstrably overpowering instincts to shield himself by any means possible and offered Crowley that which he knew, beyond all doubt, to be the truth.

"The truth is... the truth is that I miss you _dreadfully_, Crowley. You are so very dear to me. And I don't think it fair of you to punish me for something that I am clearly having difficulties with approaching." He raised a hand, because Crowley had gone, as usual, to open his mouth and sling something back his way. "And before you go and say anything, I would think that it is quite obvious from the way that you were watching the shop that you miss me as well."

"Of _course_ I miss you." The demon said, ever so matter-of-factly. He kept his eyes pinned forwards the whole while, but Aziraphale did not doubt for a second that if there were having this conversation anywhere else but the car, they would be locked on his with just as much tribute as they always did. "If I didn't care about you, this wouldn't be such a bloody issue now, would it?"

"Then why are we even fighting? Why can't things just go back to the way they were?"

Crowley pulled the car over. He had to cross two additional lanes of traffic to do so, and a number of motorists certainly weren't pleased with him for it. He could care less.

He knocked the hand brake on. Switched off the engine. Left the lights on. Why he took note of all these things, he wasn't sure. But he did. They were little things. Little things were reassuring. It was the big things which were more difficult to muddle out.

How could he say this? _Should_ he say it? What can of infernal worms would he be opening if he_ did_ say it?

He said it. "Because I don't _want_ things to go back to the way they were."

"Then what _do_ you want?" Aziraphale asked, frustrated, leaning closer so as to try and make some semblance of eye contact. The smell of his cologne, the feeling of his warmth pressing in close to the boundaries of his own body broke through something that Crowley had been holding ever so tightly to these past few months. He had missed the warmth just as dreadfully it seemed, as Aziraphale had missed his conversation.

_His first day of work. The touch of his lips to his cheek._

Crowley turned, wrenching his hands off of the steering wheel. Tugged his glasses free from his face and tossing them somewhere underneath the dash, he wasn't sure where. He wasn't sure of anything, not really. His breathing was all over the place. His human heart had taken to pounding in his chest with such ferocity that it resonated into his ears. He hesitated a moment and then pressed his palm to Aziraphale's cheek; the smooth, warm curve of his cheek. He felt that warmness flood through him. Encapsulate him.

Oppress him.

Crowley's eyes held not a hint of the white they so often did. The strength of his passions would not allow for it. The effect was startling, almost hynotic. It was quite enough to keep Aziraphale sufficiently distracted, such that he was barely aware of Crowley bridging the gap what remained between them; taking the angel's lips between his own and kissing him deeply.

Crowley had never kissed before. He was incredibly nervous and emotions were, as was to be expected, running high. To wit, it was something of an awkward kiss. He missed a good portion of Aziraphale's lips the first time and had to angle his head so as to accommodate them the second go around. Aziraphale wasn't really giving him much to go on, either. The angel was in something of a state of shock and still attempting to come to terms with what exactly was happening.

It wasn't as though he was particularly blindsided by the act. He'd had an idea going in that this was something along the lines of what Crowley had wanted. This very... human demonstration, one had to say. And they had indeed lived as humans predominantly for over six thousand years now. Was it really so bizarre that some of these practices, some of these desires might in fact have rubbed off on them? It seemed stranger in fact for them _not _to have done.

They clearly had on Crowley. Aziraphale, for his part, did not quite know how to react. The feeling was not bad. Far from it. It was simply that... well, he didn't really know _how _he was supposed to respond. He didn't even know what he _thought_. He did however keep his lips firmly shut, because he knew that humans sometimes kissed with their tongues and if Crowley were to attempt to do so with him, he wasn't at all sure how he might react. What might happen next.

_Don't pull away. You mustn't be selfish. He _needs _this._

_And you... you need to be close to him, again. You miss him. Let him do whatever he needs to do to be happy again. _ _Give him what he needs._

_Take what _you _need._

He wasn't sure when it had happened, but at some point, he had allowed his own hand to press to the side of Crowley's face. He traced his fingers over the high rise of his cheekbones. Something stirred then at an even deeper level. An Urge. Aziraphale chanced a parting of his lips and Crowley's slid perfectly into that now available space. The Urge grew stronger. More demanding. The walls inside of him seemed almost paper thin now and laughably simple to tear away. He wanted... _needed _to be closer. Closer.

He felt the glance of the demon's tongue. Tentative. Tasting. _Wanting._

_Yes. Closer._

Crowley pulled away suddenly, their lips making much the same sound, it should be said, as a plug itself makes when being uncorked from a drain. He took his hand from Aziraphale's rapidly reddening face, turned back towards the windshield and took hold once more of the steering wheel. His eyebrows had pinned themselves down tight over his eyes and he looked all the more demony than Aziraphale had ever before seen him. His shoulders rose and fell in alignment with the heavy breaths that his body didn't actually require but was making good use of all the same.

"Get out, angel."

"Crowley, I-"

"You got wax in your ears?" Crowley hissed, not even chancing but a glance towards the passenger seat. He had such a tight hold of the steering wheel, that his fingers were creating new indentations in the hand stitched leather. "I said _get out_."

Hurt, chin shining with saliva and feeling ever the more confused than he had been prior to his stowing away in the Bentley, Aziraphale did as he was bade and clambered out onto the sidewalk. He barely had time to close the door behind him before the Bentley screamed away from the curb, hurtling the corner in a wide, tire wrecking arc which just about took out every car in the far lane. A police paddy wagon, siren screaming its high pitched peal of disapproval, hung a sharp U-turn and went speeding off in what was doomed to be a spectacularly failed vehicular intervention.

Aziraphale watched the lights of the Bentley fade into the distance, the police car in hot pursuit and pressed his lips together tightly. So desperately overcome with emotion that, for once, there was naught he could do in his power to contain it.

He felt a great deal of uncertainty. Of fear. Fear for his celestial spirit. Regret. Grief. And even so intrinsically, hovering much closer to the surface than he had ever imagined might have been possible for one such as him; desire.

Standing in the street, suspended still in the foul smelling fog emitted by the Bentley's burning tires, Aziraphale acknowledged a truth of which he still found so utterly and irrepressibly impossible to admit.

The knowing that in that very split second prior to Crowley pulling away, that he had felt the very last of his reservations come crashing down. Had felt the overwhelming Urge to not only accommodate the kiss, but to return it. To deepen it. To part his lips and _permit_ for it to be deepened.

_Anything_ more might have happened, in fact. And the knowing that such a thing had passed between them and that he, an angel, had enjoyed this entirely human, entirely physical act shared with a demon, was more terrifying than anything he had ever before experienced.

His hands would not stop shaking.

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****~X~****

**A/N**: Naww this silly pair of sweet beans. Honestly. Anyhow, I think I've done quite enough writing for now, so I'll just say thankyou as always for joining me on this little journey and feel free to express your thoughts, opinions and or feelings on the piece if you so choose.

Join me, if you like, in the next chapter/s, where Aziraphale takes some more decisive action in remedying the rift that has formed between himself and Crowley and the powers of Heaven and Hell look deeper into the particulars of the Contingency plan and stir up ever the more disturbing revelations. Until then and with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	14. Chapter 14

DISCLAIMER: Good Omens and its lovely characters are not all belong to me. This is fanfiction. It should not be hard to tell. It is not published, sitting on a shelf, earning me dowry. Which is a good thing, because I would likely be sued for ten times the amount of dowry earned for appropriating property that is not my own.

A/N: I know there is a favourite fan theory concerning who Crowley was in Heaven; being by popular interpretation as the Archangel Raphael. Owing to Raphael forming the galaxies and the stars and the like. Crowley does indeed pay tribute to the universe on a number of occasions but my interpretation is that he was never a particularly important angel.

For one, I imagine that Aziraphale would have known who he was before he had fallen (perhaps not. Although I should think you would notice someone as important as Raphael going missing). For another, Crowley mentions that he 'helped' to build Alpha Centauri, rather than being directly responsible for creating it. In addition, he's not a very important demon in Hell. He's assigned to earth and the book specifies that he's not even a counsellor within the hierarchy of Hell itself. Compare this then to the likes of Dukes Hastur and Ligur and Lord Beelzebub. I kind of get the impression that if Crowley had been important in Heaven, he would more likely be important in Hell, or at least accorded some respect as to his prior status.

Again, these are all highly debateable things and I certainly do not denounce anyone else's interpretation of Crowley's original heritage. My belief, however, was that he was likely someone who would have worked alongside Raphael as an architect. Part of a larger team. A particularly skilled one but no one of any great importance, really. I guess it's a personal thing but I just really kind of loathe that whole 'Oh, the twist is that he was once one of the most beloved and revered angels in all of Heaven!' It seems more... charming, I think, for him to have been just one of the angels going about the daily grind. Not a nobody, but not a somebody either. Just there. It makes his establishing identity as the demon Crowley and thusly becoming someone in respect to his relationship with Aziraphale more poignant, I think.

I know there is that scene where Crowley speaks to God in his flat and mentions her having said that she was 'Planning on testing them' and I'm sure some interpret that as Crowley having God's 'ear' to a degree. Whereas, I prefer to think that this is the sort of information God would have put in an employee newsletter or blasted out on the Metatron PA system. Just general knowledge. Not something of which Crowley was especially aware of to the exception of most others.

Another thing that I sort of head cannon is that Aziraphale is in fact a very skilled combatant. As in, especially skilled. It is an area in which he is well trained and knowledgeable, though this does not entail that he in fact enjoys combat or revels in it. Quite the opposite.

He once viewed being highly trained in combat as being a ways so as to actually 'prevent' harm coming to others, because it prohibited accidental harm which might come about through not having marshalled your skills enough or by flailing a weapon indiscriminately. Because of his innate loving care for others, I feel this is something Aziraphale would have felt very strongly about.

He would WANT to try to subdue others or defer conflict, where possible. And I imagine that this is part of the reasons as to why so many of the other angels are perpetually frustrated with him. Because he toddled off to earth, got chunky and refuses to utilize his skill set in a way they feel appropriate. They view him as having deteriorated to a point that he will no longer fight back. That is, until Crowley posed as him in Heaven and instilled a little doubt into their minds.

Anyway that little rant over, behold the next chapter, my dears! There was a lot more I wanted to contain therein said chapter but due to the length, I have cut it in half and will post the next section as its own separate chapter. I hope that you enjoy and I shall see you all at the end of the piece for a few closing thoughts! xxx ooo

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**~X~**

_**~Heaven~** _

_**The Rebellion** _

_ **Three hundred years prior to Earth...**_

In the very farthest reaches of the very most disparate borders of the realm known as Hell, there lies a room.

A room which has, and which shall always remain, under lock without key.

No repairs are conducted within this room. The piping might see fit to leak ever so merrily away, if not for their having corroded beyond the point of all repair several dozen eons earlier.

Located wherein the roof of any other more well adjusted and sensible room might be, there exists instead a churning vortex. It might be flame, for it appears as nothing more nor less. A little more to the side of yellow than what might be considered normal, with a black pit settled at the centre like the exposed stone of an avocado. But hell fire is of course of no concern to the demons what reside in the more routinely travelled halls of the Nether Realm. Hell fire might reduce an angel down to so much glittering ash, but it is little more than a light tickle to their Hellish counterparts. There was no reason to lock it away.

It is in fact the transformative sulphur what resides within this churning wagon wheel of horrors. The oft much sung about, quoted, misquoted and humorously referred to whence having partaken of a particularly spicy curry the previous night, Ring of Fire. That old chestnut.

They had all passed through it. The demons. Before they had been demons, of course. The point of the whole blessed thing, was it not? Hardly likely that a firm kick in the tush would amount to much more than a bruise on the buttock. Something more was required for the Celestial army to make its ever so indecorous point. Something far more lasting than a black and blue bruise. Something which seared unequivocally... deeper.

To say that the demons had 'passed through' was hardly in the spirit of the thing, as well. Much too kindly an interpretation. _Thrown_ would be more appropriate. Hurled. Flung. In some cases, kicked and shoved. It was hardly as poetic as the old verses made it out to be. The angels turfed them in with just about as much gentility as a crowd of hungover wedding guests demonstrates when lining up for the following mornings buffet breakfast. Particularly over the bacon and hash brown trays. Several perfectly good fingers had been lost to far better causes, that way.

Sulphur was likened to fire in but in one aspect only. It burned. Seems a silly and rather obvious comparison to draw, does it not? The unique difference what sets them apart however, is that it is not the body which the sulphur attacks, but the eternal spirit. Something far the more vulnerable, far the less protected. Far the more subjectable.

Preternatural Sulphur was_ not_ destructive, such as fire. But _transformative_. There in lies the very nature of its incomparable cruelty.

Sulphur could corrode the essence of the eternal spirit. Warp the very countenance of what it was what made you_ You_ and twist it into something OTHER. Something significantly altered, more mutilated, more... _not_ you.

What Became the Demons of Hell fancied that there was no pain of which any other being in all the other realms of all the known and unknown worlds could have ever experienced what might compare to having been plunged through the Ring of Fire. It was an undoing. A defamation. A disassembling of most everything they had known and understood to be the finite essence of their ephemeral nature.

They remembered it, oh yes. Far too well. They felt it still; like a stomach ulcer not quite knitted over. They kept the room locked. Kept themselves far away from the sickness what continued to threaten and permeate from behind those cavernous steel doors.

God's constant little reminder for their so called transgression. An ever scratching fingernail to the backs of their moulded necks.

The Angel What Came to Be Known as Lord Beelzebub remembered. It was an agony what might be considered beyond compare if not for the pain which shortly therefore preceded it; the pain of knowing just who it was responsible for having drowned them beneath the waves of this sulphuric nightmare in the first instance.

They had been created in near direct conjunction to one another. At almost the very same moment. They had been the first in fact to have met with Gabriel and Gabriel was the first to have met with them. It was very tentative, those early most days in Heaven. Everyone was a little anxious; a little fresh, a little uncertain. They had supported one another through that; those of the First Flock. Had come, as such, to know one another in ways of which so few of their kind could ever attest to.

Both they and Gabriel had been the very first in all of known history, in fact, to have transcended the nature of their divine love; to encapsulate something... more. Something the deeper, the more personal, the more... specific. They walked to one another's immediate side, spoke words of which wove a language that was ever so uniquely theirs and theirs alone. Two sides of the same coin.

Eternal companions.

Gabriel had not foreseen the questions.

The doubt.

It had made the betrayal all the more personal. For his _not_ knowing. For Them not to have shared what was clearly so bound innately about their soul; progressing step by step and further into the deepest breaches of self-destruction, of unholy disobedience and contempt.

Gabriel was, much as he had always been, one with little capacity to empathize in ways in which he had not otherwise been instructed to do. There were rules and expectations and stipulations in place, so as to help guide Heaven forward in a means by which there was as little as confusion to be gleaned from the process as was reasonably possible. It was not a difficult ask, simply to follow the rules and to live in joyous harmony for all eternity, was it not?

Why then, had they insisted on driving a heel into all of that?

Why had they destroyed it?

Why had they betrayed _him_?

These were the only questions he dared ask. In unconscious streams of which never flowed anyway to within the realm of conscious directive. He did not voice them. The Virtues had created a Blueprint ever so perfectly succinct to that which God had requested that she so desired of her angels and there was perhaps no better example than Gabriel himself.

The love he felt for the Angel What Would Become Beelzebub, was incontestably secondary to that which he retained for the Almighty.

The Lord bade. And Gabriel obeyed.

And hurled his once truest companion into the sulphur without a seconds hesitation.

Given the enormity of his actions, he was himself at a loss as to why the angel Aziraphale had in fact hesitated; had demonstrated such indecent mercy towards the pathetic creature which Michael then wrestled into the room, having reefed their trembling body from beneath the table under which they had been hiding.

"I would have expected more from a Cherubim." Gabriel remarked, face carefully neutral as another angel stepped in to assist Michael with their squirrely captive. The Angel Who Would Come to Be Known as Crowley, was unrecognizable as the demon he was destined to become. He did however, look terrified. His bare feet squeaked upon the porcelain floor as he was herded into the room.

"Please! Please, I didn't_ know_! I didn't know it would come to this! _Please_!"

Michael attempted to fairly much toss the flailing cherubim over one shoulder but the angel responded in turn by going completely limp; as though all the bones had vanished from their celestial body. He dropped to the floor, much like an agitated toddler; resistant to all attempts to lift him. Michael took a fistful of softly curled brown hair, wrapping their fingers in good and tight so that the roots pulled painfully as they tugged upward.

"Get up, you bastard. Take some responsibility for what you've done."

"Really... It's all a bit much, isn't it? You needn't drag him." The angel known as Aziraphale spoke at last. His was the kindest voice in the room, though the Cherubim knew full well that his was the hand most responsible for having rounded up the majority of the rebels. Though he had not struck down a life during the war and was a creature known for his predominantly gentle and non-violent nature, his was revered as a sword arm quite every bit as affluent as was Archangel Michael's. He was humble however, having little need for asserting his capabilities. Most recognized that he was very much capable of cleaving a many a head from an otherwise wanting neck, if the mood so took him.

He was a light in an otherwise all saturating darkness. And the Angel What Came to Be Known as Crowley had no where else upon which to turn. He wrenched himself from Michael's grasp, losing hair in the process of doing so and crawled on his belly upon the floor, dropping his face to rest upon the feet of the angel Aziraphale.

"Please. Please, help me. I only asked questions. I didn't even fight in this stupid war, I had no idea things would turn out like this. Please, I beg you... _I'm afraid..._"

"Don't despair, my dear. Dry your eyes." Aziraphale knelt, gently guiding the weeping Cherubim onto his knees. He used the hem of his robe to dab the tears from his fellow angel's face, guiding his wings about him so as to create a safe pocket in which he might rest a moment. Free from the condemning gaze of those others gathered within the room. "Place your hands together now. Come."

"Aziraphale, you are wasting everyone's time with this nonsense." Gabriel had little in the means of patience, celestial or not. He had thrown the person he cared for most into the newly formed realm known as Hell at the Lord's behest. Why should this grizzling waste of ephemeral space be worth any more of a moments consideration than that of his once dearest companion? "Toss the snivelling creature in and let us be done with it."

"Please. Can't you see that the poor thing is terrified? If he must go, then at least grant him the courtesy of going forward with some semblance of peace. I hardly see the offering of such grace as a 'waste of time'." These were of the days when Aziraphale was of much higher renown and far the more outspoken for what his status at the time entailed. They indulged him, for his combative skills were good. Even if his mindset was all the more charitable than most any of them could reasonably fathom.

Aziraphale took the trembling hands of the weeping Cherubim between his own and helped with folding their fingers together. He smiled reassuringly, pressing his forehead to that of his, for now, fellow angel. Tried to instil some of that warmth of God's light, that hope, within the aura of the poor sad creature kneeling before him.

"Pray. If you are sincere, if you are truly repentant, then She will forgive you."

"I didn't do anything _wrong._" The Angel to be Known as Crowley said.

"I'm afraid you rather did, my dear. You betrayed your duties. But God is merciful. She will absolve you, if only you are contrite. If only you are genuinely remorseful for your unfortunate transgression." He clutched his own hands tighter to those of the frightened angels. "I will pray with you. Come. _Pray._ Ask Her forgiveness."

The cherubim sobbed, pressing the side of their tear stained face against the Principalities hands. What use was prayer now? They had transgressed beyond the point of all return; offended that which was incontestably understood _never_ to be offended. The writing was on the wall. There would be no absolution. Nothing but that long, slow dive into the fire and the darkness.

A stain like deepest tar which might never be scrubbed from the soul.

Deeper. Beyond reach of all light. A brand.

"I'm sorry." He wept, not believing in fact that he had done anything wrong. He never perceived having asked a question or two as having perpetuated any sin worthy of eternal damnation. The apology was pointless, so far as the Almighty was concerned. But it was not Her to whom he offered his apologies; but to the Principality, who knelt upon the cold and the hard of that floor with that unflinching face of love and support and compassion. Who was attempting, ever so thoughtfully, to help ease him towards an absolution they both most assuredly understood was not at all on offer in the first place. "I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me. _Please_."

The Lord's answering silence was absolute and ever the more instructional, so far as the surrounding angels were concerned. They had since grown weary of this unfashionable display and it was Uriel now who stepped forward, yanking the cherubim out from beneath the safe awning of Aziraphale's wings. The Angel To Be Known as Crowley tried to keep a hold of the principalities hands and felt for a bare, desperate moment, that reciprocal pressure.

"Please." He begged, his eyes staring deep into those of his fellow angel. The fingers loosened slightly. A flicker of what might be uncertainty passed across Aziraphale's pleasant face.

"He seems remorseful, though. Truly." He said, glancing about at the other angels so as to ascertain their assessment of the situation. The looks returned were not those associated with being unconvinced, but those of persons who were plaintively unconcerned as to what the truth might very well have been in the first place.

"Of course he's sorry. He got caught. Let him go. _Now_."

Aziraphale hesitated a moment longer and then smiled so softly, so kindly and loosened the grip of his fingers. They slipped from about the cherubim's, like a hook pulled from the lip of a fish. With it went the final granule of hope that the Angel to Be Known as Crowley had been nursing.

"Oh God. Oh God, no. _Please!_!" He wailed, having descended now to a rather ungainly flailing of limbs which was demonstrably and embarrassingly un-angelic. "Please don't let them do this! This is wrong! You_ know_ it's wrong!"

"So sorry." Aziraphale said, his smile set as firmly upon the canvas of his face as had been Gabriel's stone hard dissonance mere minutes earlier. The corner of his lips quavered slightly; that ever so telling expression one might barely maintain when presented with a situation they felt to be utterly contestable. "May we meet on a... better occasion."

"You're damning us! _Cowards!_ The lot of you!"

"This coming from the likes of one who crawls on his belly upon the floor." Gabriel sniffed, taking the angel Which Might Soon Come to Be Known in fact as _Crawley_ by the collar of his robe. The malice drifted up from far below; that terrible feeling of impending doom, of something being terribly wrong. It curdled the stomach, strobed the corners of the mind, such as a beseeching madness seeking claim to that which might otherwise practice sanity. The cherubim felt a fear he has known only the very few moments since that fateful day well up inside of him.

In the bowels of the Vices newly installed Hell portal, the Ring of Fire swirled the transformative sulphur about like a monstrous wagon wheel. It was light years away and yet, close enough to feel. Close enough to send the base of his feet to tingling, his heart to pounding with such ferocity it near sheared the cavern walls of his chest.

"Now shut your stupid mouth and burn already." Said the Archangel and tossed the cherubim down, following directly in the wake of that which he had cared for most assuredly more than anything, sans God Herself. Aziraphale had looked away at the very last moment. The room had taken on a particularly haunting smell; like so much burned meat left unattended on a charcoal BBQ.

Crowley had in fact come to crawl on his belly. Just as Gabriel had said.

That was what the sulphur did, you see. It _changed_ you.

Changed you quite as much as what you understood _yourself_ to be changed.

Aziraphale could never seem to quite understand that.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you as always to everyone who takes time out of their day to read, to follow and or to favourite. If you enjoyed, please feel free to leave a comment, or even constructive criticism, if you feel there is something that I could be working on.

Take care everyone and I hope to see you in the very next chapter!

All my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER:** All the wondrous characters, foibles and happenstances of Good Omens do not belong to me. I have but the privilege of being able to borrow them a short while.

**A/N: **Thank you as always to everyone who is reading, following and favouriting. You guys are absolutely wonderful.

Your random Good Omens-ervation of the day: Sometimes I wonder if the real reason Crowley struggled with saying the word 'boullibouise' was to trick Aziraphale into making kissy faces at him. If you think about it like that, the whole context of the scene changes. For the better really ;)

Hope that you enjoy the 'update', my dears!

* * *

**~X~**

_**~Sunday, April 7th, 2019~**_

**_The Grange Estate Nursing Home_**  
_**Nine months or so until the Apex...**_

"You seem sad, Anthony, dear."

Crowley quietly cursed himself. He'd let his thoughts carry him away again. Work was supposed to have made this all easier; not giving him an excess of time in which to stint on things what might otherwise have occupied his busy mind.

Not the past.

Certainly not Aziraphale.

He had never blamed Aziraphale for his... not quite part in the act of his damnation. He was as much a victim of the circumstances as had been the rest of them. Crowley had no expectations of the angel having ever needed to do something outlandish and courageous. It would likely have seen him just tossed right on into the Ring of Fire himself and what a perfectly wonderful waste of an angel _that _would have been.

They hadn't known one another then. Not truly. But Crowley had cherished the other angel's kindness and had obviously never forgotten it; had sought in some minor means to repay it all those many years. But he had not been expecting grandiose gestures on behalf of someone with whom he had had the most menial of personal contact back in the days of Heaven.

They knew one another now.

_That_ was the difference.

"I'm a little sad. Nothing for you to worry about."

"I'll worry if I want." Gretchen said. She puffed out smoke. They were out in the garden once again, sharing a sneaky cigarette. They were going to play canasta later, but nicotine imbuement always had to come first. "Got nothing else to worry my head over, so I might as well fuss over you."

"I'm a staff member. You're not allowed to fuss over me._ Boundaries_." Crowley blew out his own puff of smoke. He had been smoking quite a bit more lately; even when he hadn't been at work. He'd taken to doing so on the patio of his flat. He felt bad still. Even though he and Aziraphale were spending time apart, it still struck him as being demonstrably disrespectful somehow.

But it helped a little. It helped with the stress.

He was quite a bit more stressed than usual these days.

Wasn't getting nearly enough hugs, for one.

"You and your Alex still not talking, pet?"

"Still not talking."

"Life's short-"

"- I know."

"- shouldn't ever let the sun set on an argument, that's what Alfred and I always used to say. Sort out your shit before you sleep."

"Classy as ever, Gretch." Crowley flicked ash out somehow indiscriminately into the pine bark framing the surrounding rose bushes. Bushes that were in such vibrant bloom you might never have suspected that their roots were currently trembling with enough force to incite a tremor in a small subset of islands just off of the Greater Antilles. Not that you would ordinarily suspect such a thing, though you might get to wondering just what magic it was that the gardener might have weaved so as to encourage the plants to profligate so vivaciously. Some special blend of fertilizer, perhaps. "This is just a little... just a little too complicated."

"No such thing. You're just stubborn."

"Not stubborn." Crowley said. Sucked back so hard from his cigarette that the smoke became lodged in the lump that had formed in his throat. His glasses were just as good as the fact that Gretchen was blind where such moments were concerned. He could hide the pinprick of tears, the shine of his eyes. The pain tucked into every damn near line of his ageless face. "Just too fast."

* * *

**~X~**

_**Café Phillies, Kensington High Street...**_

She had been known from the very earliest of times as Luxuria. Most modern humans however know her by another name:

Lust.

A Capital Vice. More colloquially known as one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

She'd kept busy in her retirement; atypically enough. The passions of humankind never slept. Not when there were so many willing bodies with which to sleep.

And lust was a busy lady.

Humans lusted voraciously and for quite a bit more than just the flesh. They lusted for most anything of which they wished to obtain. Power, money, popularity, respect, property... It was a drive as variant as it was universally intoxicating. And one which had never dimmed, not so much as a jot in all the thousands of years she had resided upon the earth; underpinning the undercurrents of transgressive human nature.

Most any creature under God's fair creation was subject to desire. None was exempt. And so her work would never be done. Not truly.

Her work took her many places. Corporate businesses. Real estate. Drug dens. Love dens. The highest rises of the highest buildings, to the lowest conflagrate of the shallowest underbelly in the seedier aspects of inner city dwellings. She had overseen the filming of any thousand of pornographic films; some of which had been directly responsible for Crowley's long standing fear of being seduced by provocative service people. She had also been responsible for corporate takeovers, for student teacher affairs, for any far reaching number of extroverted and sometimes deeply disturbing perversions of which the mind might have sort to indulge so as to scratch some particular itch.

Such things never sat at all well with Castitas. Theirs was a drive which had substantially diminished in comparison to the explosion that had been Luxuria's over the passing of the years. So few individuals truly wished to abstain from those things which wrought them pleasure, it would seem. The twenty first century had proved particularly challenging.

Castitas, or Chastity as she might better be known, might have been Luxuria's sister. They were both of dark skin, dark hair and brown eyes. Where Luxuria's body was curvier, more buxom, more... Falstaffian, Castitas was smaller, toned and trimmed. She often went about her business in designer brand exercise gear and in that not so ironic fashion most women adhere to now in a sad handed reference to 'athleisure wear'. Where Luxuria's hair was big, tall and unapologetically permed, Castitas's hair was sleek and straight and often slicked back into a high ponytail. Their eyes, though similar in colour, sparkled differently. Luxuria's vampish and knowing. Castitas's bright and wide and all too vaguely 'morning-person-ish'.

They met at the café with much the same hug they had always greeted one another with. Counter parts, of course, were never immune to the intrinsic pull they felt whence their other half was concerned. That feeling of undiluted love, of duty, of balance, was always ever so much present.

They were joined by Temperantia and Gula; Temperance and Gluttony, respectively. Gula was every bit a terrible American stereotype; represented in form as a large bellied man in a plaid shirt, khaki pants and a cowboy hat. If there had been a chicken bone on which to suck, he would most certainly have been gnawing his slightly crooked front teeth down into the bare marrow of it. Cafe's were typically scant of such offerings however and so he made do with a spattering of assorted pastries; each more rich and decadent and injected thickly with custard than the last.

Temperantia could be most readily described in but one word and safely set to rest as this being substantial enough: Grey. She wore a grey suit, charcoal grey shoes and had tightly pinned back hair that was streaked with strands of silver, which aspired to be grey when they had tired of voraciously beaming their worth to the world. She bore a look of placated, eternal patience and emitted ever so soft, tittering sighs at Gula as he wolfed down an indecent and inordinate amount of food; demonstrably less than the cup of lavender tea from which she had taken only two menial sips, thus far.

It had been two months since they had sat down with the representatives of Heaven and Hell and signed their contracts. Two months, quintessentially, in which they were intended to be conducting some work. But still, they waited.

They waited on the others. Spread far and thin, as they so often were. They would be difficult to find, for it was not their habitual scheduled meeting up time.

And some were spread much further apart than others.

"Have you heard word from the rest?" Luxuria asked, scooping a small spoonful of whipped cream from the decadent curl which rested atop her drink. Gula eyed it obstinately, considered perhaps helping himself and deciding, quite wisely, that appropriating from Lust was never likely to end well. Lust had immeasurable passion and such passion could be ever so easily integrated into the likes of rampant and ever the more indulgent violence.

"Humanitas messaged earlier. His contract arrived the day before yesterday, only just signed it. Should be touching down this morning." Castitas smiled, slapping her fingers ever so lightly to the backs of Luxuria's hand, who was doing her utmost to be seductive with the blob of cream which had purposefully affixed itself to the tip of her nose. "Off again in the jungle somewhere. Aid work, you know. Invidia can't be far behind."

"We can only hope!" The four gathered members of the Contingency plan sat up straight in their seats and smiled, to see none other than the bubbly, moustached and joyous Humanitas alight to the side of their table. He kissed each upon the cheek, for this was nothing if not Kindness given form and made the effort then of crossing to the far side of the room, so as to fetch for himself a chair that was not going to have inconvenienced anyone by his appropriating it. "Been an age and a half! I do so miss that darling creature. And you know they would be ever so worried as to what I have been getting up to. Dear thing."

"That's Envy for you." Temperantia took the ever so slightest touch of a taste from her cup before setting it back down into the saucer whence it came. Not so much as a stray drop had tarnished its surface. "What do you make of all this then? Quite honestly, we're all a little flummoxed."

"I'll tell you what's flummoxing. The way that our powers are exuding." Luxuria stated, stretching out some of the kinks in her back and resulting in a number of humans sitting nearby going home to conduct some very indecent dealings with one another after they had finished their vanilla slice. "Every since we signed those contracts, our preternatural pheromones have just been expunging like crazy. I could control it before; send out small bursts where wanted but_ this_! I feel like I'm walking around with the most terrible hormonal body odour ever concocted! A couple started to actually take their clothes off in the park when I crossed through the other morning! Police were called, I think. Saw the blue lights. I might have felt rather the embarrassed if I wasn't... well, me."

"The Apocalypse." Castitas remarked, directing some of her own energy towards the hormonal couples in the hopes that it might drain out some of that unintentional spill over that her counterpart had imparted. "The Anti-Christ denounced their responsibilities and negated the ending of the world. The Four Horseman failed. And so we have been charged with picking up the pieces."

"Did they really suppose that the shadows of the human condition were truly substantial enough to see it through? The culmination of it all?" Gula grunted, spooning in another forkful of food. A great deal of it had taken refuge in the borders of his moustache, twitching out of range of his tongue with the propensity of a threatened weasel. "Never send a horseman to do the job of fighter pilot, that's what I say."

"It was understood that humanity would, through force of free will, instigate the means by which it would ultimately destroy itself, dear Gula." Humanitas said, waiting until the serving lady had noticed his arrival and approaching before making an order for himself. Never one to inconvenience others. "One supposes they were hardly in need of an Anti-Christ really. They're ever so clever at destroying themselves. What does one child of Satan really amount to, at days end? Lubrication by which to ease the inevitable transition ever downward?"

"You remember the Ark?" Temperantia poked a finger differentially towards the sky. An ironically clear and near cloud free blue sky; pock marked only by a pair of birds twirling idly in some afterthought of a seasonally inappropriate mating dance. "Suppose it to be a bit like this? You think She's... ticked off again?"

"She always was a bit... temperamental." Gula grunted, fishing the nail of his index finger about between his teeth. He pulled a face as Temperantia swatted him for what was, given _who_ he was, a typically indulgent statement. "Oh, come on, love! You know that's a fair assessment! She's the equivalent of a drunken great aunt sitting on a stairwell with a glass of straight gin after a party in which no one complimented her shoes. Taking a lash at anyone what ticked her off and then pretending later that there was some deeper meaning behind it."

"This is the Almighty about whom we are speaking." Luxuria reminded. She was not altogether in disagreement of this assessment (_goodness knows she had known the Lord just as long as any of them)_ but this was still the One whom had substantially more power over any of them. She may very well have been the only one, but that power wielded was quite enough to keep them all ticking along congenially enough. "She has her reasons for doing what requires doing. We know better than most anyone why."

"Not entirely why." Said Castitas. She was a Virtue, not an angel. Questioning was well within her capabilities. "But never mind the intricacies of it. The pondering is pointless. The how and the why intrigues me more."

"Ira." Humanitas said and the word was enough to close down whatever energy had been driving the conversation. It was as near as taboo a topic as the Vices and the Virtues might ever broach. He did in fact, broach it all the same. "Have any of you been in touch with Patientia?"

Luxuria replied. "She felt him. He arrived. Almighty only knows how. But he arrived." Her eyes, those eyes the colour of the sweet, purple lily, spanned the group. The column of her beautiful throat observably rose and fell. "He's on his way."

"Well... God only help the poor bastard what sent him there, that's all I can say."

Temperantia glanced at Gula, who was slogging back what had to have been about his tenth full fat latte with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.

"It was God Herself what sent him there, love."

"Yes, but via having granted the instructions to that poor angel what was charged with clipping his wings and installing his prison. Wrath does not discriminate. He will apply his rage to that whom he feels slighted him. And God is out of the reach of one even so profligate as rage."

They sat a few moments in silence; allowing the swirl of customers to bustle about their business, plainly agitated by the presence of some many conflagrating emotions all but battering at the borders of their spirits.

"Do we know if there are any interlopers?" Castitas asked, tucking one foot behind her ankle in that ever so prim way what seemed proper with the women of the upper class in any such ages past. Temperantia glanced up ever so briefly, taking stock of the entirety of the world in that one seemingly innocuous gesture alone, before delicately plucking up her cup and sipping from the still nearly full contents.

"Just the usual. The two earthbound agents."

"We expect any trouble whence they're concerned?"

"I shouldn't think so. They're charming sorts, but not the brightest. The Angel would be the one to worry about most, I should think. He's the combative. The demon has nothing in the chambers." Humanitas, having only taken a quick sip from his coffee, exclaimed softly, bringing an appropriately bronzed and patched satchel around to perch in his lap. He petted the palm of his hand against the bulges permeating the aged sides. "Which reminds me. I have a book what needs returning."

They all sat in quiet repose a while longer. Sipped from their drinks. Watched the world as it was passing by.

A storm would soon be coming. They should enjoy the peace while it lasted.

* * *

_**~Las Vegas Arcade, Soho~**_

In a gaming arcade, not so far removed from the café in which the spattering of Virtues and Vices were enjoying their drinks, three demons and four angels, shielded from the Vices spells by very complex magic, were doing their utmost to look as though they weren't in fact attempting to have a clandestine meeting.

It was proving difficult. The young humans gathered within the complex seemed to be staring at them an awful lot. And that was even before Hastur had near discorporated himself in an attempt to thrash the living Heaven out of one of the pimply little pricks at _Dance, Dance Revolution_. It had, in hindsight, been a poor choice of location, Gabriel conceded. Anywhere that dancing might inevitably occur proved far too tantalising a distraction for demons.

At least Lord Beelzebub seemed focused, which was par for the course. Perhaps a little _too_ focused. They were currently taking out their intense irritation on a game of _Whack-a-mole_, to the point in which the angel had started to feel genuine empathy for the inanimate plastic beasts.

"Well, _that's_ going to be an awkward one." Hastur remarked between deep, wheezing gasps; barely holding himself up over the frame of the machine Beelzebub was currently so engaged with. His legs had all but given up the pretence of being in any way shape or form capable of supporting a human body and draped along the floor behind him like so much bedraggled river kelp.

"It's the only loophole we can glean from the contracts." Michael remarked, visibly wincing and closing their eyes in response to one of Beelzebub's more vicious bommy knocker applied assaults. "They're no longer affiliate agents. They have been discharged."

"Why should that make any difference if angels that have been damned from Heaven are still subject to the contract?" Dagon asked, contentedly toying with the yo-yo she had purchased by having exchanged the tickets she had won from the_ Dunk-a-shot_ machine nearby. She was quite proficient at some of the tricks already, Gabriel begrudgingly acknowledged. Especially the walking the dog one, which she seemed to be taking some strange esoteric delight in executing over and over and over again.

"Damnation was not considered, by the letter to be actual _discharge_ from active duties. It was... project reassignment, if anything." Uriel said, hands set routinely behind her back and trying to pretend as though she hadn't yet been on the receiving end of any number of knocks from the enthusiastically wielded plastic yo-yo. Her shins in particular, were staring to feel particularly bruised. "An altering of a set standard of responsibilities. The demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale have been struck from active duty. They are _free agents_."

"Freelancers. As are the Contingency Team." Beelzebub smacked a protruding mole head with the broaching of such genuine gleeful vehemence that they left a concave mark in the creatures plastic head. It seemed to retreat back into its hole just that enth degree faster than those which came before it.

"We looked over our original contracts. There _is_ a loophole." Sandalphon contributed, nose wrinkled as was becoming something of the norm for when he was forced into the same relative confines as the demon Hastur. All that sweat that the lousy bastard had oozed out during his unnecessary dancing fit was so much an assault on the senses it ought truly be considered an executable offense.

"Agents discharged from active duty will no longer be subject to the stipulations, expectations and contractual obligations as are so set forth in these divine agreements." Gabriel quoted from memory. He was good at that; remembering things. Par for the course of being God's direct messenger. "They shall henceforth be permitted to act upon and do so forthwith as they do wish, with neither fear nor expectation of reprisal or consequence, exempting those which are exacted by the individually acting agents of either realm from which set individual hails."

"They're the exception." Beelzebub said, bomber knocker at the ready as the plastic moles now quivered with some recently acquired somatic fear in the confines of their acrylic burrows. "We discharged them. They're no longer bound by the contracts."

"Exactly. Take into account their inexplicable immunity to Holy water and to Hell Fire respectively-"

"-they're perfectly geared, so to speak."

Hastur groaned, smacking his forehead into the side of the console so hard that it rousted each of the moles out from their holes in squealing unison. "This is going to be a _bloody_ nightmare. As if the flash bastard wasn't smug enough already."

Beelzebub didn't say anything, though they were ever so much in agreement. Instead, they continued to quietly take out their frustration on the innocent heads of the plastic moles, which served as ever so much a poor replacement for the head that they would be much prefer to be caving in.

* * *

_**~A.Z Fell & Co - London Soho~**_

With the exception of a spattering of red wine stains and the oft errant chest hair, Crowley never left much behind in Aziraphale's bookshop.

There were times he had crashed there, true. But he had always, without fail, scooped up his accumulative belongings before swanning on out the door the following day. It was important, that. Especially given that Aziraphale's once Heavenly affiliated work colleagues had made a habit of just showing up unannounced to check in on the progress of their earth bound angel. It wouldn't do for them to stumble across a jacket, or a sock or indeed a set of boxer briefs emanating the manner of odour most celestial agents would register as being of 'evil origins'.

Crowley had always been considerate so as to never land Aziraphale in this manner of predicament.

He hadn't been so careful following the Apocalypse.

He had left a singlet.

Aziraphale might not have even noticed it was there. It would seem that the demon had perhaps kicked it with the heel of his foot when showering one morning and had sent it skirting up under the piping of the sink. It had likely been there the better part of three to four months. There was a spattering of filmy cob webs adhered to it.

Aziraphale had taken to smelling it.

It had shocked him at first, because the singlet had been sitting there, stewing in its own juices for all those months. He had expected, upon unearthing it, that it would smell positively atrocious. He was surprised to find the odour quite subtle, in fact. Hardly what you might even _call_ an odour.

If you were to ask Crowley what it was that Aziraphale smelt like, he would likely reply: _"Sugar and spice and all things tooth corrodingly nice_" and then perhaps follow it up with _"Lavender, talc, fancy cologne and pious restitution"._ His was a scent Crowley knew all too well, for his sense of smell was in fact much stronger than most any other being on the planet. Most demons were like that, in fact. Once they had grown accustomed to a particular scent, they would be able to ferret out whatever was associated with said scent in fairly short order.

Crowley had known Aziraphale's scent long before Lavender, talc, fancy cologne and sugar and spice had been invented. Back then, he might have best described it as a sort of warm, clean smell. Similar to that of a newborn baby, if one must draw comparisons. It had helped, the addiction he had developed concerning Aziraphale's particular scent.

If in a direct crosswind, Crowley could tell precisely and from what direction Aziraphale was travelling. If the angel were not in the immediate vicinity, a good whiff of the air would inform Crowley as to what direction he was in. He could not always sense just where exactly Aziraphale was, but he could rightly tell whether or not the angel was in fact present and to which direction his presence was situated. Such as that very special time in France, when Crowley had all but (_unbeknownst to Aziraphale)_ furiously doggy paddled across the English channel sensing that the angel had gone far astray of where Crowley had last left him. What you get really, for leaving an angel unattended for the better part of fifty years.

Angels, though ever so adept at sensing love (_not so keenly when it came to the natural divergent borders encapsulated within a demon's earthly body, however_) had a rather much poorer sense of smell. Not very different, one would say, to that which belonged to a human.

Aziraphale might, if indeed having been asked as to how Crowley smelt and being recovered enough from the inherent strangeness of being asked such a question, say: _"Somewhat the more expensive designer brand of cologne likely ordered from some television catalogue, whatever liquor he might have been drinking and something subtle yet ever so akin to burnt toffee"._ (This was of course the preternatural imbuement of sulphur which lingered within his ethereal spirit. Perhaps Crowley smelt the slightest bit better, Aziraphale reasoned, because he was ever so slightly sweeter than his demonic bed fellows. Of course he would never suggest such a thing to Crowley. Though the demon hadn't at all minded when Aziraphale had mentioned that he smelt of toffee. He had affected a strut ever so peacock like for the better part of three decades following this particular admission.)

The singlet had smelt of all these things. There was the ever so slight pinch of sweat smell but not much, for Crowley, as he had himself stated, did not perspire heavily. And he was a very fussy, fastidiously clean individual, as a point of personal pride and, predominantly, because he enjoyed taking care of his earthly body, just as much as he did his car and his wings. To wit, the majority of his clothing items smelt very little of anything so much as unappealing as body odour but rather more of the nicer side of things that he contributed to his skin.

Aziraphale had rather shocked himself with the sniffing of the stowaway singlet. He had taken a perfunctory whiff, such as you would_ (for whatever the reason)_ before ferrying the clothing off towards its inevitable water boarding in the washing machine and then found himself coming to a stop whence halfway across his shop. He had taken the garment in both hands, given it the ever so slightest, nigh unconscious knead and then brought it back up to his nose. Closed his eyes as he inhaled much harder and deeper than earlier; pulling in as much of the smell as possible. So deeply, he would hardly have been surprised if the scent had shot on right through every channel of his brain and lodged itself firmly in the rear of his skull.

The cologne. The unmistakeable scent of scotch. The burnt toffee.

It was all there.

It was all _Crowley._

He didn't even care that there was a curly chest hair sticking up out of the material. Or at least, what he had_ convinced_ himself was a chest hair.

It had been two months eight days since Crowley had asked for some time. For some space.

There had been nothing in the means of space between them that scant week earlier, when Aziraphale had miracled himself into the passenger seat of Crowley's Bentley and gotten his lips vigorously kissed for his efforts.

The kiss.

Oh dear Lord. The _kiss_.

Aziraphale still had his face buried in the singlet. The hair was tickling at his eyebrow. He barely registered it. Crowley's scent brought it all back with all the sharpness and clarity of a tattoo gun. Or so he imagined. He didn't have a tattoo. Not a physical one, anyone.

The width of his eyes. Those big, somehow vulnerable and deeply beautiful eyes, which never looked alarming to him so much as in perpetual, wanting need of validation, of warmth. Of reciprocation.

Eyes which had moved to look down at his lips. Only mere moments before he claimed them with his own.

The set of his jaw, pushed forward, lip jutting at that ever so petulant angle. So much Crowley. So very much Crowley that near piranha like expulsion of the lower jaw.

The arch of his cheekbones beneath Aziraphale's fingers...

Crowley's palm cupped to his cheek; not at all possessive but loving, reverential, of need, of great, irrepressible _need._

That the kiss had _not_ been perfect. Which made it ever so uniquely and utterly _them._ They had never done anything perfectly. Why should their first kiss be any different?

The feel of Crowley's lower lip moving in between his own. How he had pushed ever so slightly downward with it; creating that gap by which to glance his tongue to the space suddenly formed between Aziraphale's teeth...

The angel felt his traitorous human body stir once more at the memories.

Oh, he was no better. He had_ wanted_ it to continue. Quite as much as his terrible human body did.

The closeness of it. The abject, incomparable and exquisite_ closeness_.

It was what had been missing. What Crowley had clearly been intimating had been missing all these years. That shift in dynamic, yes. That transmutation into something infinitely... _more._

He didn't wash the singlet. Not right away. He missed Crowley, after all. And the smell helped. Quite as much as it hurt.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you as always for taking time out of your day to read, my lovelies. If you enjoyed and feel comfortable doing so, please feel free to leave a comment. Even concrit, if you see room for improvement :)

Wishing you all so much happiness in your own lives and, as always, with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLAIMER: **Good Omens, its assorted angels, demons and the like, are the beautiful brainchild of Sir Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Thank you, kind sirs, for lending us your babies with which to play with for a while :)

**A/N: **As always, my thanks to all you wonderful pepes for taking time out of your way to read and show support for the story. I appreciate it so much, especially right now. To be honest, there's some stuff going on in my life at the moment which is really tough and editing this story has been a virtual godsend. So thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving up some of your day to spend with it. It makes me so happy to share it with you all :)

Here's hoping that you enjoy the chapter!

* * *

**~X~**

_**~Sunday, April 7th - 2019~**_

_**A.Z Fell & Co's**_

_**Nine months to the Apex...**_

Crowley had invented selfies. So, it would hardly be a surprise to anyone that he did of course, have a number of social media accounts.

He had quite a collection of them, in fact and had for some time. Of course, none of them had ever been able to include Aziraphale. Not whilst they had both been kowtowing to their respective realms. This had changed following the Armag-Don't-even-bother. Crowley did in fact seem to relish the chance to plaster all his social media platforms with pictures of himself and Aziraphale; a sort of systematic 'fuck you' to the powers that be.

He had a rather ridiculous number of followers. Aziraphale hated to think just how he had attained quite so many.

Aziraphale had cause to wonder such things, because he was in fact engaged in something of a desperate act. An act he never before considered himself ever having been brought to, come Hell or... well, high water, appropriately enough.

He was stalking Crowley's _Facebook_ page.

Very slowly. On his rather antiquated computer. With its very poor Internet connectivity. (_Poor Aziraphale had no idea he could link up to the Internet on his new Smart Phone, of course; which would have reduced the inherent frustration that he was experiencing on account of his computers seemingly inexplicable need to buffer every few minutes_).

Aziraphale never paid much attention to 'social media' in the past. That sort of thing was of no particular interest to someone like him. It seemed very facile and superficial, really. He couldn't quite understand Crowley's appreciation for the seemingly unabashed 'showing off' mentality of it.

Aziraphale spent an inordinate amount of time looking through Crowley's photos. It had, as a direct result, made him feel extremely naïve, narrow minded and ignorant.

Such captions of the two of them eating out at some restaurant, where Crowley had written: "_Dinner out is always a treat with this one. Even when I'm shouting_." And a whole mess of things prefaced by the hash tag symbol, which Aziraphale could not even pretend to understand. One picture in particular, which Crowley had taken whilst all but falling over the back of Aziraphale's study chair, arm about Aziraphale's shoulders and phone hiked up high above their heads, had garnered quite a few likes and love hearts from Crowley's plethora of Facebook 'friends' read:_ "When you want attention and he wants to READ. Desperate times, amiright?" #snekvsbook_

Aziraphale took his reading glasses off and set them aside. Pinched his fingertips to the bridge of his nose and sucked in a deep breath, cutting off the wave of emotion that swept up suddenly inside of him.

It hit him. Just what it all _meant_.

Crowley was sharing him. Sharing_ them._

Unashamedly. With the world as his audience. His confessor.

He wasn't_ afraid._ Not at all. With Hell off of his back, he was proud and staunch and unapologetic with his affections. It was obvious. Obvious from the loving, doting nature of the comments to which he had affixed any number of photographs he had taken of Aziraphale. Not all of which included Crowley.

_"When you've worked a full day and still go outta your way to pick up that bottle of red. Hope the bastard knows how lucky he is."_

_"Nice sunset. Too bad about the bloody ducks."_

_"Ain't that a smile and a half? Should do his own toothpaste commercials."_

_"Hair seems fluffier than usual. New shampoo?"_

And then, what really clinched it, so far as Aziraphale was concerned. A photograph which he _remembered_ being taken. Not so long after they had imbibed their first inaugural sip of champagne at the Ritz, having swapped back bodies following their near executions at the hands of their respective realms. A picture Crowley had insisted on taking of the two of them; his smile slightly giddy, Aziraphale's soft and light as ever. Champagne flutes a merrily hoisted towards where Crowley's phone had been perched at the end of his distended arm.

The caption read: _"When you realize you damn near lost everything, but _gained_ everything instead. Cheers to you, ya bastard."_

Aziraphale had quite a time remembering when last he had cried. He wasn't at all sure that he had. Not really. Not truly.

He did then.

_"Just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing."_

_And just enough of a bastard to not at all be worthy of you, my dear. Not in the very least._

Crowley's relationship status was set to _"It's complicated._"

**~X~**

* * *

_**~Monday, April 8th - 6:00pm~**_

_**The Greenhouse - London**_

He had arranged for a quaint table at one of his very favourite restaurants. It was quite pricy.

Needless to say, Alice was every inch out of her element. She relaxed considerably however, the second she approached the table and saw the gentleman she had come to recognise as Alexander Fell rising from his seat and smiling in such a reassuring manner that it immediately set her nerves to rest.

"Good evening, my dear." He said and in doing so, just about reduced her to dribbly goop in her seemingly more unsuited by the moment K-mart brand high heels. Because... _wow._ She had heard Anthony's stories of course and he had been quite definitely correct in saying that a picture of Alex did not do the piece at all the justice it deserved.

He was a little chubby. He wore a tartan bow tie. His outfit looked smart and well cared for but considerably outdated. His hair was stark white, though he did not appear to be much older than his late-forties and it looked as soft as a cloud with ever so slight curls towards the tips.

His eyes were _beautiful_. There was no other words by which to adequately describe it. The effect of his smile; warm, genuine and ever so deeply imbued in those soft and gentle looking blue-green eyes was almost debilitating.

_Oh my God... if he's not the absolute cutest fucker what ever existed._

"You look lovely." He further remarked and though it was quite obvious (_at least from her limited human perspective_) that he was as camp as a row of tents, she still found herself blushing.

"Alex. It's so nice to meet you, finally." She stepped up to the table. "Alex" took her ever so gently by the hands and lent a brief kiss to each of her cheeks. He gestured for her to turn, so as to permit him to assist with the removal of her coat. She melted a little more. "This is very fancy, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's very nice." Alex (_Well, Aziraphale as _we_ best know him_) remarked, folding Alice's coat across his arm. He shuffled over to pull her seat out, tucked it in once she had properly installed herself and then gestured towards the coat room. "Do make yourself comfortable. Won't be but a moment."

Alice took a sip from her water, found herself sitting up much straighter and tighter than usual. She cast surreptitious glances about the restaurant; at the dim lighting, the ever so elegantly dressed persons perched up at near every table. It had a sort of quiet air to it what most restaurants she ordinarily frequented did not possess. Soft music played in the background. It was terribly... ambient, she supposed.

And quite so far, the nicest dinner date she had ever shared with a man. Platonic or not. And all she'd had was a sip of water.

Aziraphale returned from the cloak room, smiling still and slid down properly into his own seat.

"Thank you once more for agreeing to meet with me. I hope you don't think it terribly presumptuous, but I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of _Dom Perignon 2006 _to share over dinner. My way of saying thank you for putting you in no doubt something of a terribly awkward position."

He had no sooner said this, than had a waiter appeared with two glasses of champagne. Aziraphale beamed radiantly at him, much as it seemed was his way with near everyone and uttered a soft 'Thank you' as the young man deposited their drinks upon the table.

"Oh, my god. Um... thank you." Alice said, smiling. Chuckling a little as she picked up her glass. "Thank you so much. That's... that's really sweet."

She held her glass out to him and they tapped them together. She took a sip. It was quite easily the most delicious drink she had ever tasted in her entire life. She actually put a hand to her chest as she lowered her glass back to the table.

"To be honest," She said. "I feel a little out of my depth. I don't... this isn't normally the sort of place I come to."

"Rest assured, that everything is on me tonight. You are granting me a kindness. It is the least I can do after messaging you out of the blue, like that." Aziraphale plucked his serviette up off of his place setting and whipped it out to its full length, laying it across the plain of his lap. Alice mimicked him, quietly relieved that a waiter hadn't taken the opportunity to do so. That might have felt just a little _too_ awkward. "Please, do take a look at the menu. Order whatever you like."

"Oh, no, no I couldn't possibly. I'll just have something li-" Alice's eyes just about bugged from her skull as her eyes locked on something partway down the centre page. "Oh my god, they have _lobster!_"

"By all means, order it if it pleases you." Aziraphale said, looking plaintively unconcerned as he glanced over the menu for any recent additions he hadn't yet taken stock off. He had his set favourites, of course but it was always good to extend your palette where possible.

"It's far too expensive."

"Nonsense. If money can be spent on providing some further enjoyment to the world, then it is money_ well_ spent." He took another sip of champagne, took one finger off of the glass to gesture towards her menu. "I insist. If you do not order it, well I shall have no choice but to order it myself and set it down in front of you. Or send it home in a doggy bag or some such thing."

It raised a question of which Alice, and a few of the girls at the Grange had been pondering for some time, though hadn't felt at all comfortable raising it with Anthony (Aka: Crowley). It seemed she was now in as good a position as any to get the skinny.

"If you don't mind my asking," She said, setting down her menu and taking another sip from her glass. Aziraphale raised his brows amenably. "Speaking of the money thing... I mean... Cumquat drives this restored old Bentley-"

Aziraphale's brow twitched ever so slightly. "Cumquat?"

"Oh, that's what we call him at work. He didn't like Ant. Said it was too 'creepy crawly', whatever that means. So he got Cumquat." She lifted her own brown meaningfully. "Because he's a bitter little fruit."

Aziraphale thought this terribly apropos and could hardly keep from chuckling in response to it.

"Anyway... he drives this old Bentley which is in perfect condition, he wears designer clothes and expensive shoes and has a flat in the posh area of town..." Alice raised her hands in a universal expression of confusion, cocking her head slightly to the side. "Clearly he's doing all right for money. Why then is he working a low income job at a nursing home?"

Aziraphale didn't feel it would make much sense to inform the young lady that it had been he himself who had all but manipulated Crowley into joining the workforce, because he was a recently expunged demon from Hell who was finding his days hard to fill. And that the only reason for Crowley being so affluent in the first place was because he had magicked up every single pound that he had, rather than sincerely earning but a dime of it. The angel thought quickly on is feet however, and offered up in favour of an honest explanation:

"Ah, well. You see... Anthony came from something of a wealthy family." He paused a moment as the waiter whisked up to the table and deposited a bread roll to each of their side plates. Aziraphale made a cut down the middle of his and applied a good lashing of butter to each still warm portion. "He had quite enough to set himself up, but he had a... falling out with them some time ago."

Alice gave Aziraphale a sympathetic look, reaching across the table and cupping her palm about his wrist.

"Because he's gay?"

Aziraphale dithered on this a moment before rationalizing that there was an element of truth behind Crowley's being discharged from Hell on the basis of his affiliation with an angel. Though it did of course have nothing whatsoever to do with sexuality, but rather with his consorting with the enemy. Again, quite a bit more difficult to explain to a human.

"Well... you might say that our relationship played a part in it, yes." He finished spreading the butter onto the piece of bread and took a small bite. Savoured the creamy texture and the warmth which flooded his mouth before swallowing and then dabbing the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief. "But Anthony, as you can no doubt already appreciate, knows his own mind far too well."

"Doesn't he just?"

"He's very self-sufficient. And when he works, he works hard. He's quite proud in that sense." And so, having naturally stumbled headlong into the very queries of which he had been so desperate to make, Aziraphale set down his bread, winding his fingers together and hesitating but a few moments. It felt terribly wrong to put someone in this position. And yet he simply could no longer abstain from doing so. "How has he been? I'm so terribly worried about him."

"I think we're all a bit worried about the bitter old fruit, to be honest." Alice said, leaning back in her seat and taking another sip from her champagne. She was started to feel significantly more relaxed. The alcohol was helping. 'Alex's' easy manner was the main contributor. "He's going out almost every night. Drinking to the point he can't drive but insisting he can 'sober up anytime he wants'. I'm surprised he's not in the early stages of kidney failure yet."

"Yes, he did always enjoy the odd tipple." Aziraphale remarked, finding the fact that Crowley was taking himself out and about to conduct his heavy drinking to be the truly bizarre factor in this scenario. Crowley had always enjoyed drinking and given that he had been doing it a long time, his tolerance for alcohol was ostensibly greater than that of most any human. It no doubt looked incredibly startling from an outside perspective however. "Is that having an impact on his work?"

"Well that's just the thing. No. Not at all. He's amazing at work. He's so dedicated. We could honestly use a few more like him." The waiter drifted briefly up on the tides once more to ask if they would like some more time to peruse the menu. Alice advised that they would. He drifted on back whence he came and she continued: "He never comes in hungover. Not that you can tell, anyway. Always well presented and tidy-"

"Oh. Is he taking care of his work uniform? I've been concerned that he might end up ruining it by accident."

Alice shook her head. "Fine. It's fine. It's always clean. Works out any stains he gets on it. Doesn't seem to be an issue." She sipped from her glass again, wondering if it would be too forward to ask for a top up over dinner. This first one was going down far too easily. "He hasn't been hooking up with anyone. Just so you know."

Aziraphale blinked; quite honestly unfamiliar with the term. "I beg your pardon... hooking up?"

"Going home with people. Snogging anyone. You know. Had his offers though. Random Soccer Mum seems _really_ keen. Wouldn't be surprised she follows him into the Men's one night, tries to have her wicked way with him up against the sink. Think it would be obvious, wouldn't you? That he's not... well, _you know_. I mean that _walk_, for one." She was babbling, though not from anxiety such as she had been expecting. It was simply that 'Alex' was so easy to talk with. "Suppose she think's she's got a chance of 'changing him'. Good luck with that, I reckon."

It should not have come as such a relief to Aziraphale to hear that Crowley had been... well, was_ faithful_ really the right word? It wasn't as though they were traditionally engaged with each other in such a way so as to naturally exclude the possibility of 'hooking up' with others but still... He acknowledged that it _did_ come as a relief. That Crowley was not in fact drinking himself into such a state that copulating with a human seemed a reasonable thing of which to partake. Alice could see that this has been welcome news to the man she believed to be called 'Alex'. He looked far the more saddened than he did pleased by it, however. And it was strange, because she could almost swear that his was a sadness which seemed to leach right on into the borders of her own heart and set up shop there. As though it were... contagious.

"Well it... it hardly comes as a surprise that he would receive offers." Aziraphale sipped much more deeply from his wine than he had intended. But rather felt as though it had been needed. "He's very handsome. Very clever. Terribly good company."

"Yeah, but he's _so_ loyal, hun." Alice said, taking up her own roll and splitting it down the middle. She felt a little rough for doing it by hand but 'Alex' didn't seem the least bothered. "He doesn't even flirt with anyone. He's just civil. Think you're the only one he's got eyes for."

"I see." Aziraphale considered the other half of his roll and felt an ever so strange and wholesomely unfamiliar thing. The sensation of having lost his appetite. "Has he... I mean... has he spoken to any of you as to why we're spending... time apart?"

Alice had taken rather a too large a bite of her bread roll. She tucked in another sip of her champagne to help soften up the overzealous portion and managed to get it down without embarrassing herself too much. 'Alex' was kind enough to pretend not to have noticed. "He's pretty private about that sort of thing. Said you're taking a break to work through some stuff." She wondered just how much she should tell the ever so endearing man sitting opposite her. 'Anthony' would likely be mad, should he have found out but what point was there in leaving things hanging like this? They were clearly both miserable from being apart. If it could help to fix any of this mess. "...He did have himself a right proper teary after karaoke the other night. Stupid bastard sang that song 'Clarity', nearly had the whole place bawling. Got back to the table, we're all blubbering all over each other, telling our break up stories. In amongst all that mess he goes and says that he feels like you're... ashamed of him."

Aziraphale could not have felt the more confused and astonished by this then if it had been spoken to him in Ancient Sanskrit. "But that... but that's_ absurd._"

"What he said was, is that he feels like you're afraid to properly invest in him because you're afraid of it 'changing' something about you. We... kind of just assumed that meant you were... still in the closet, or something."

"Well, it's not so incorrect an assumption." Aziraphale acknowledged, thinking that even now he was having ever so trying a time attempting to extract himself entirely from Heaven's lint lined ephemeral pocket. Say what you want but the hooks they sank into your spirit sunk deep and held fast. "Perhaps I am a little... afraid. But that's my burden. It should never suggest that I'm ashamed of him. That he could actually..._ feel_ that way..."

Alice, comfortable enough by this juncture to rest her elbow against the table, set her cheek to her fist and gazed warmly at the eloquently spoken man across from her. He seemed ever so sweet. All the hardness, anxiety and rigidity that might have otherwise captured her body and held court over it in an otherwise unfamiliar setting, just seemed to have sluiced away in the time she'd been sitting there. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. There was just... something. Something_... ineffable_, about him.

"I think he feels like you're worrying about what everyone else in the world will think, rather than putting him and your relationship first. Which makes a bit of sense, when you think about it." She waved her hand about and took a smaller sip from her glass, trying to make the most of the modest amount remaining in the base. "I mean, I know you don't know me and it's not really any of my business but he's absolutely _crazy_ about you. He loves you to itty-bitty bits."

Aziraphale felt his heart near slam to a stop in his chest. He was quite certain the shock resonated right on through to his face; so resolute was its nature.

Love.

Not felt. Not understood to be present, to be underlying their every interaction with one another. But spoken aloud. Given form. Prescience.

Acknowledged.

Like the pictures.

Shared. Shown. Paraded. _Celebrated._

_"It's Complicated"._

"He... said that?"

She could see it had come as a surprise to him. Which seemed a very strange thing, for two person's who had supposedly been together quite as long as they had. Did they never say it to one another? Perhaps that was something older gay men were particularly reserved about?

"Said it on the first day we met him. He can be a bit shy but he got all cute when he was talking about you. Thinks you're the best thing since sliced bread. He's so proud of you. I think he just wants you to be proud of him too."

"I_ am_ proud of him. I'm terribly proud of him."

"Does he know?"

"I should hope so." Aziraphale said, with the look of someone who was rather the more uncertain as to whether such a thing was true or not. And more the concerned by the moment that the answer was perhaps _not._

"Maybe don't hope. Maybe just tell him? Sometimes people need stuff spelt out to know that it's true. Especially a little hot house orchid like Cumquat." The waiter returned to the table, bringing a small plate with an even smaller sampling of food upon it. Alice was naturally somewhat confused by this. "Oh, we haven't ordered anything yet, though."

"It's a complimentary taster." Aziraphale smiled, gesturing towards the saucer with his hand. "Please. Help yourself."

Alice did as was encouraged and took a small forkful of what appeared to be a sampling of some fish based dish from the menu. As the flavour swirled about on her tongue, she felt what little of her that hadn't already melted into goop disintegrate entirely.

"Oh my goodness, that is _divine_."

Aziraphale smiled with soft irony as he took another sip from his champagne flute. "Or close enough." He said, more so as to amuse himself and gestured for the waiter to top up their glasses. Alice groaned softly, waving a hand at the flush she felt developing on her neck.

"Honestly, though. If Cumquat's stupid enough not to take you back, can I have you?" She could have done much worse than to be treated like a Queen every day. It was quite enough to make her good and certain that she was going to be divesting a stout clip about 'Anthony's' ears the following morning at work.

Aziraphale chuckled, glancing off to the side in not so much an embarrassed manner but rather a more thoughtful one. The idea of Crowley not... taking him back was more the pressing concern that such an otherwise contrary statement evoked. It was like a pinprick; seeming small and innocuous but one which had sunk in much deeper than it otherwise appeared to have done.

"I'm quite certain there must be suitable young gentleman who would glean more from your charming company than I myself, my dear." He smiled, reaching across to pet his fingers kindly to the back of her hand; chipped nail polish be damned. "Perhaps someone who you might also enjoy looking across the table at, rather than seeing this fussy, white haired old man staring back at you."

The champagne must have gone a little to her head, because Alice found she set her flute down just a touch too hard at this. Some of the delicious liquid within near splashed out onto the table and what a waste that would have been!

"Oh my God, you are _not_ old! And you're just making me love you more when you go and say adorable stuff like that." She supped a drop which had escaped from her glass off of her knuckle, unconcerned now as to composing herself to any such unimpeachable standard. "I can see why Anthony's so smitten with you."

"Oh, I hardly think that he's smitten." Aziraphale said, now quite definitely flirting with the borders of embarrassment. He found himself taking yet another more offbeat sip of his drink than he might otherwise have considered necessary.

"Then you're reading the cues all wrong." Such as earlier, Alice stinted as to whether or not she needed to be telling Anthony's jilted partner all the messy particulars of her colleagues various daring-do's. But having sat with the lovely man a while now, she cast a derisive 'fuck it' to the collective universe and decided that it was quite worth whatever it took to bring this pair of dopey sweethearts back together again. "You know, I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but-"

"What?" Aziraphale asked, eyes widening, setting his glass down. He looked so positively alarmed that Alice actually reached across the table to cup a hand about his wrist.

"He got into a fight the other night." The news did not come as any sort of salve to whatever alarm 'Alex' was currently nursing. He looked quite as much as though he were about to spring from his chair and launch himself out through the nearest window. "It's okay, he's fine. He was just mouthing like he normally does. Got himself a fat lip for his efforts. All but cleared up the next day, weirdly..."

Aziraphale hardly felt at all reassured by this. Oh, it wasn't as though it was the first time it had happened, of course. Crowley was quick witted, clever and prone to wielding his words in much the same manner that other less civilized beings might have wielded a dagger, or similarly sharp, cutty thing. It stood to reason that a lot of less cognitively established individuals would take exception to his fast tongue and particular brand of sarcastic tenderizing and respond in far less orthodox a fashion. This was particularly true of when they might have been out and about and drinking to excess. And this they had done quite a bit throughout the years.

Aziraphale had lost count of the times in fact, which he had been forced to step in. Though he was an angel, he was no stranger to violence. All frontline celestials were trained in their own particular brand of pugilist arts and he had once been one of the more adept at doing so. (_Though he supposed not many cared to remember such a thing. He was not the least boastful about it and preferred the peaceful quiet of more gentile pursuits. You might say that his was a flaming sword more the often sheathed rather than paraded about at head height and heralding to all far and wide that it was a blade quite merrily prepared to shear limbs from otherwise needing torso's.)_

But Aziraphale could fight, yes. Though he did prefer to think of it as rather defending oneself and others; redirecting energy, whence required. He could disarm, subdue, subvert and waylay any number of flying fists, feet, broken bottles, wicker chairs and the whatnot and had done so many a more time than he could truthfully recall. Crowley was quite aware of Aziraphale's innate propensity to stand between himself and whatever harm might otherwise befoul him and more the likely took advantage of it, the angel thought.

Crowley was _not_ a fighter. He was a terribly good instigator and provocateur, but he was the sort who would prefer to shove an otherwise useful shield between himself and trouble. And that shield was, more often than not, Aziraphale.

Aziraphale had not always been at his side throughout those six thousand years, however. He was no fool and had no delusions as to this being the first time in history to which Crowley had received a cuff about the ear for giving cheek where it ought not have been bandied. It hit harder however, for this was a time when they were ever so much more isolated than they had ever been and more the such responsible for each others wellbeing. It reminded him of that very first time in the Garden of Eden, when Superbia had glanced their ringed hand off of the side of Crowley's face. Had set the seemingly confident serpent to trembling; a creature who clearly intended to present themselves as unshakeable but had indeed a tremulous core which was not so accustomed to harsh treatment.

A demon, yes. But vulnerable. So wise, so clever, so the more holistic in his consideration of most everything but beneath which dwelt something incontestably soft. And wanting. And ever so much in need of protection.

Aziraphale was failing him.

"Oh, that's so not like him. He hates confrontation. And I'm usually there for him to hide behind on oft occasion confrontation finds _him_." He set his glass down, tilted his head back and took a measured sigh. It was the most composed gesture Alice fancied she had ever seen. Ever so English and upper class in some ways. Ever so terribly refined. And quite tremendously brave, in others. "I'm ever so worried about him."

"Is this the first time you guys have had a big fight where you haven't been talking?"

"We've had a few. Nothing quite this serious, however. And to be honest, I'm usually the one giving the silent treatment and he's the one picking up the pieces." Aziraphale plucked up his courage, feeling a very strong need to share with someone; to divulge some of the emotional complexity of the situation and see whether they might, in their clumsy human way, assist him in navigating what was ever so unfamiliar and rather very human like muddy waters. They were good at this, the humans. They did it all the time; or so books and television told him. "It's just... I worry for him being left to his own devices. He's very clever of course but he can also be... quite vulnerable in his way. He doesn't take care of himself all that well and..." He realized, quite so soon as he had begun that he'd hardly a clue as to where he was going and turned back to his champagne, taking a rather more unapologetic gulp which near drained it down to its bellows. "I sound positively ridiculous to you, don't I, dear?"

"No, not at all," said Alice. Nearly two glasses in, one small taster to her name and not nearly enough food to keep up with the alcohol that she was quite the more unaccustomed to. She was feeling the slightest bit giddy and more than just the slightest bit emotional. The lower lids of her eyes had started to feel a little heavy; a little blurred. That... sadness. It seemed a very real thing; much as might have been a drug injected directly into her veins and working its way through her heart and brain and whatever else such substances stole claim to. His sadness was like that, she vaguely thought, sipping once more from her glass and wondering even as she did just how big a cup of coffee she would need to balance this all out. It polarized her senses.

It had to have been his eyes. They were... _soulful._

She could completely understand where Anthony was coming from.

"It's dreadful to know that I've hurt him so badly. And to be quite honest I..." Aziraphale stuttered, feeling once more that ever more intrinsic need to permit himself some lenience. To share with someone, so as to help alleviate the pain what he was feeling inside. He was acclimated to it in some ways; he'd had a good six thousand years to learn how to compartmentalize, after all. But this... this situation was rather more catawampus than most any of which preceded it. "I'm not at all sure how I am supposed to go about fixing it this time around. I've always found it rather the simple process to forgive Cr-_Anthony_ but I suspect that forgiving me is something he may not be able to do quite so easily. It's..." He bit his lip, a gesture Alice found so utterly adorable that her already sluggish body near schlepped beneath the dinner table to see it. "...hard to give him the space he wants, when all I want is to _go_ to him. I'm accustomed to being able to fix things and now... now I don't rightly know where to start. I fear I've done irreparable damage."

"I'm sure it's not _irreparable_." Alice said, who, having had so many dozen irreparable relationships herself, was rather an uncontested authority on the matter. "Whatever problems you guys are having is reconcilable, surely? You're not beating the living shit out of each other. You're not lying and stealing and cheating on each other and doing drugs and abusing one another. It sounds like you're just having a little bump in the road."

"A rather big bump." Aziraphale stated with a nervous chuckle which belied the very real feeling of helplessness rooted at its core. "One large tree that's fallen right onto the road and there's no means to drive around it."

"Then get on out and hack it to bits with an axe. Chainsaw the bastard. Pull it apart with your bare hands if you've got to. Just don't give up on it." Alice sighed, wiped at her welling eyes. Her period was due and she was already emotional but_ this_. She had expected some pompous, arrogant stuff shirt to whom she would only minimalistically tolerate the company of for the better half of an evening. Not a pompous stuff shirt who was so completely as sweet as pie and lovely and more the gentleman than anyone she had ever met in her entire life. It was too much. "I'm so sorry." She nearly sobbed, waving her hands at her eyes as tears threatened to spill out over her lower lashes. "I know this is going to sound so completely stupid but... I just wish I could _fix_ this for you. I don't even know you but I hate that you're hurting! You seem like... such a lovely person."

"Oh my dear, please don't cry," Said Aziraphale, passing over his spare handkerchief and gesturing for her to take it. As she wiped her eyes, he took her hand between his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I didn't ask you here so as I could impress upon you to intervene on my behalf with... Anthony. I simply wanted to know if he was _all right_. That is all. I would never ask for you put yourself in such an awkward position."

If he thought this would help, he couldn't be the more wrong. His genuine kindness and compassion was enough to cause Alice to tear up all the more. She had dated her fair share of bastards, users, abusers and cheaters. She had pinned her heart and her hopes on drug addicts, on liars, on passive aggressive underhanded bastards who would comment slyly from the corner of their lips that she could lose a bit more weight or that her bum wiggled just that too much when walking to the bathroom after sex.

That two perfectly lovely men like Anthony and Alex had found one another and yet found some reason so as to remain apart, was preposterous. It might have made her mad, if it didn't feel just so terribly wretched about it all. The world was thick with scum. She herself still felt stained most days_ with_ that scum.

How could they not see how_ lucky_ they were?

"Oh my God... now I just want to help you out more. Can I give you a hug?"

Aziraphale was not Crowley. He certainly wasn't one to turn down the offer of a hug if it were to come from anyone other than the person he most earnestly wished he could be holding at that moment.

He rather felt he needed a good hug. It was quite certainly thanks in return, he thought, for the generous serving of _Sous Vide Butter-Poached Lobster_ which graced the table to the accompanying rapturous squeals of his much appreciated confidante sometime after the fourth glass of champagne.

"Can I ask you something?" She had queried at some point over dessert. Forcing Aziraphale's attention up and away from the dark chocolate ganache tart he was picking at distractedly. Ever so much a definitive indicator as to there being something terribly wrong in the angel's chemical makeup. "What do Anthony's eyes look like? None of us can get his glasses off of him to get a look."

"Beautiful." Aziraphale said simply, without thinking. Without apology. They were as round as the inlay of a saucer, as yellow as the harvest moon and ever the more missed by the moment.

He plucked a corner from the edge of his tart and left it where it fell sidelong and impotent upon the plate.

The chocolate, he thought, tasted like sawdust.

**~X~**

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**A/N: **Thanks for reading everyone, always very much appreciate the time spent :) Feel free to leave a comment or a favourite, or a follow; if you enjoyed. I hope you all had a very lovely and a very safe holiday season and I shall see you in the next update!

With all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	17. Chapter 17

**DISCLAIMER: **Good Omens is the property of persons who are not myself. This is a fanfiction site; I think it would be safe to presume that this is fanfiction.

**A/N: **Thanks as always to everyone who is reading and following. Believe me when I say that every single one of you are absolutely appreciated and your support is coming at a time when I can really use those little feel-good pitter patters of the heart :)

Good Omens-ervation of the day: When Aziraphale and Crowley were reporting into Heaven and Hell in episode one, they entered the Broadgate Tower lobby _at the same time. The. Same. TIME._

It's like; guys, HELLO? If you don't want your superiors catching on that you're 'fraternizing' with one another, maybe don't enter the building at the exact same moment. "Oh, it's a wonder Crowley hasn't spotted you, yet." SPOTTED HIM? Crowley probably gave him a LIFT to the bloody building and then they went out to get a drink afterwards. (Rolls eyes)

Honestly, I think it says a lot more about the morbid stupidity of their superiors than it does Aziraphale and Crowley.

Yet another update for you, gentle readers. I'm sorry this subdivision process isn't going quite as quickly as I had hoped. Lots of RL stuff going on at the moment and there is, actually, a bit more editing required with this than I expected. I promise I will get there as quickly as I can!

* * *

**~X~**

_**~Monday, April 8th - 2019~**_

_**The Grange Estate Nursing Home**_

_**Nine months to the Apex...**_

Crowley finished work at 8:35pm. He'd been there nine hours and might have left early if not for an incident having occurred with a client falling in the bathroom whilst attempting to use the toilet. He'd been taken into hospital for routine observation and Crowley had been held up pecking out an incident report.

Paperwork. One of the things he most definitely did not miss about the old job.

He was very tired and very ornery. He hadn't had a chance to really eat anything either and his human stomach felt tight with hunger pains. His chest hurt with thoughts of Aziraphale. His brain swirled with memories of the kiss they had shared.

_What_ had he been thinking? If subtle insinuations slipped slyly into surreptitious place over the passing of sixty centuries was going too fast, than all but shoving his tongue into the angel's gob was equivalent to jamming the blessed thing into overdrive!

What was quite worse however, was that Aziraphale had not merely tolerated it. Which was what Crowley had been setting himself up to expect.

The angel had started to respond. Crowley had felt it. Felt it in the more obvious gestures of the hand upon his face, the accommodating parting of Aziraphale's lips. In more subtle variations, too. The sinking of each of his muscles, the slight push forwards, that ever so tiny dart of air inward...

_Oh, I would have had you then. Have you have _me_, one or the other._

He'd never felt so ravenous. It was a hunger he had never before understood. Not when it came to food, anyway.

Food was fine. Excellent at times. You picked away at it. It passed over your tongue, gave you a transient, temporary experience of satisfaction and pleasure. Passed on through. Not quite so elegant from then on out.

But a kiss... a kiss was ever the more delicious than anything else what had graced his lips in all his six thousand years on earth.

It was Aziraphale's kiss and his taste was _sweet._

Crowley was, in near direct juxtaposition to how Aziraphale supposed him to have been, every bit as confused as was the angel. He was frightened, to boot.

Frightened of himself.

There was so little free will in Hell, as there had been in Heaven. And the transformative sulphur possessed its own distinct set of inherent directives. Of drives. A blueprint which became ever so succinctly a part of a demon's structure as was the DNA code of a human being. Certain behaviours, emotions, reactions and learned and innate responses alike were integrated within this topography.

Demon's exalted in sin. In deceit. In temptation.

Crowley was especially adept at temptation. It was pretty much considered to be his _raison d'etre_ in times past.

This, quite so much as Aziraphale's struggles against the abstinent template what composed his own angelic soul, was to wit what Crowley struggled to pull apart and discern the differences of.

Was this desire he was feeling a largely falsified sensation? A facet of a demon's innate drive to subvert and capitalize the nature of innocence? To corrupt? To indeed devour; much as he devoured the sight of Aziraphale taking such pleasure in partaking of a delicious meal most night after night?

Being alone. It... might not be a choice. It might indeed be something to which Crowley would be required to accustom himself.

Better that then allowing his jaws to unhinge. Swallowing alive the very person he cared for most in all the world. With no true insight as to whether this want was truly his alone, or something base and instinctual and entirely demonic.

He was not however alone _that _particular evening.

The sight of two very familiar demons leaning and perching apiece upon the bonnet of his Bentley came as a most unwelcome gift. He would prefer the loneliness, far more than the company of a pair of nether dwelling degenerates who would sooner see him reduced to blithering nothingness in a tub of Holy Water.

They hadn't yet caught wind of him. This was due, in no small part, to Crowley having holed up behind one of the large, decorative shrubs bordering the nursing homes gate. Resolutely finishing the cigarette he'd lit the moment he stepped snakeskin booted foot out the front door.

The breeze was in his favour. It was a still night and the air was blowing towards him. He'd caught Hastur's distinctive scent almost immediately, though he was quite certain even a human wouldn't need much help in this regard. That was one distinctly whiffy demon.

"_Shit, shit, shit._" He quietly cursed, taking yet another drag from the dart and flicking ash beneath the hedgerow. A vehement snort proclaimed itself from somewhere beneath the tangled roots of the topiary, suggested he had likely upset another otherwise circumspect hedgehog going about their prickly business. "What do they want? Why _now_?"

It was a conundrum, to be certain. Crowley wasn't a fighter. Never had been. There were much cleverer ways to subvert conflict than to directly engage in it. He had in fact devoted a great deal of his six thousand years to systematically _avoiding_ conflict. Much like a snake he would turn tail at the first sign of the ground trembling and bite only when backed into a corner.

There _was_ however a more pressing matter at hand. One of which Crowley's racing, panicky mind lit upon with such sharpness of clarity that it voided much of the inert concern he had otherwise been hogging for himself.

If the demons had come for him, had the angels in turn come for Aziraphale?

This was a thought terrifying enough for him to conclude that hunkering in a bush for the next however so many hours was just not going to cut the mustard. He needed to get right on back into town as though all the demons of Hell were, appropriately enough, alit to the seams of his leather trousers.

And he wasn't about to go leaving his Bentley in the work car park. Where he went, so too did his car. All for one and one for all, and all that.

Crowley's quick mind stitched together something of a patchwork plan. It wasn't the most stylish of plans, but it would do. More to the point, it would serve its purpose and be ever so inherently satisfying to boot.

He snapped the fingers of the hand currently not occupied with the dwindling stub of his fag. The Bentley's engine roared to life, the lights snapping on and illuminating the hedgerow in front of it.

The demons had barely a moment to acknowledge that something was happening before, with a secondary snap of his fingers, Crowley sent the car screaming into reverse, resulting in Lord Beelzebub tumbling off of the bonnet and onto the road. _(Oh yes. _That_ in itself was satisfying enough to warrant the lighting of another smoke)._

The car turned sharply, rocketed up to alongside the gate and swung its passenger side door open. Crowley flicked aside his expired filter, diving in through the open door and commando rolling into the drivers seat.

He flung his middle finger out through the window, tossed the crumpled ball of his work uniform into the backseat _(Aziraphale would have had a field day of disgust at this show of garment related disrespect_) and stapled the accelerator to the floor; speeding off out of the car park with a generous spritzing of gravel casting a wave over the pair of demons that were currently floundering about on the ground like a couple of blow flies on their backs.

"Get on after him, Hazztur." Beelzebub said, with far more composure then one might expect from a venerate being whom had been so inelegantly turfed onto the tarmac. Hastur, shaking gravel from his badly manifested weave of straw like hair, did something he never thought himself capable of doing. Disobeying a directive from his far the higher ranking and ever more deadly as a result, superior.

"Get on-? This bastards immune to holy water! I saw what he did to Ligur, I'm not jumping in a car with him! I discorporated the last time!"

"Fine." Beelzebub grunted and within a moment had snapped out of sight with a scent not dissimilar to that of a cap gun going off.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a Bentley now approximately three streets away, the _Greatest Hits of Queen _was blaring (_such was the norm)_ and the demon Crowley was feeling particularly pleased with himself. He was also attempting to drive one handed, whilst thumbing Aziraphale's mobile number with the other. The attempt was summarily shot to shit, by the appearance of Lord Beelzebub popping into existence in the passenger seat with an expression akin to someone who might have been stuck doing petty cash collation for the majority of a sunny Friday afternoon.

"Crowley." They said, in a voice of such flattened affect you would hardly have expected it to have roused any sort of alarm in return. Crowley to the contrary was extremely alarmed, finding Beelzebub's stowing away to lack quite the charm that Aziraphale's had done a few days earlier.

Once upon a time, Crowley might indeed have maintained a great deal of smarmy respect so far as the lord of Hell was concerned. These were not those times. He was no longer in hells employ. He owed no loyalty, no allegiance. And certainly not so much as anything resembling a modicum of civility.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the passenger side door blew open. In the same gesture, he twisted about his seat, bringing his knee up to his chest and lashing out with his left foot as hard as he could, striking the other demon square in the chest. The momentum might have driven the petite form of Lord Beelzebub right out onto the road, had they not snared the edges of the door with their fingers and waylaid their imminent ejection at the very last moment.

"What the heaven are you _DOING_, you stupid idiot?!" They yelled, losing their cool for one of the very few times they had ever, so far as recorded history would suggest, done so. They pulled themselves back into the vehicle, encountering increased levels of resistance in the process. Crowley was a fairly flexible creature and he was putting this manoeuvrability to good use, having half twisted in his seat to employ the use of both legs now, keeping the accelerator pinned to the floor by pure force of imagination alone.

He peddled them wildly, as though he were riding an invisible bicycle, landing repeated strikes against Beelzebub's face, chest, arms and stomach. It resembled a couple of liquorice straps being whacked about by a group of kids doing jump rope in the schoolyard; such as you might have found in the days before mobile phones, drones and cyber bullying made the world a much better place for the likes of growing minds.

"Get the_ fuck_ out of my car you maggot munching, shit-sniffing, _harpy from Hell!_" Crowley yelled, grunting as one of Beelzebub's hands managed to squeeze through his onslaught and grab a hold on the front of his shirt. The car was fairly much hugging the curb now, the hubcaps shearing sparks all over the likes of frightened pedestrians and idling house cats alike. He barely avoided hitting a parked car, keeping the open door of the Bentley from being snapped off at the last moment. Thank... someone for his demonic reflexes or this would be even more of a ridiculous clean up.

"I want to talk, would you_ SSZTOP_, for the love of all that'z unholy?!"

Crowley took one hand off of the wheel and started slapping at Beelzebub's diminutive fist, attempting in rather poor fashion to dislodge it from his person. A couple of buttons popped free of his shirt and he felt the night air alight to far more of his chest than even he was comfortable having on display.

From the corner of his eye, he saw through the windscreen the great oak which had sprouted from the grass of the curb some hundred or so years past. It might have been lit in a holy light, such was its convenient appearance but there was, of course, nothing holy to be discerned in this instance. Divine provenance or not, it was a convenience and one of which he was all too happy to take advantage of.

"Go hug a tree." He said, bringing both knees up against his chest and executing some lumberly variant of a donkey kick, which otherwise had the intended effect he'd been going for.

Beelzebub was hurled spectacularly from the open door of the Bentley, slamming into the oak and all but wrapping themselves about the trunk with rib cracking complicity. Crowley snapped his fingers to bring the Bentley's door shut, twisted back into a regulation drivers position and pawed about on the floor near his feet. He found the phone, realised that the call he had been making prior to Lord Beelzebub's having humped barge, had actually gone through.

He set it to speaker.

Sounds of things crashing, thumping and lots of very incensed yelling. He recognised Aziraphale's voice. There were others as well. One more the distinct for how it was ever so perfectly burned into the nodes of Crowley's preternatural memory.

Gabriel. No mistaking that slimy, seersucker tone.

Crowley jammed his foot hard to the accelerator. There was no time to waste. And that was just taking into account the two or so police cars he needed to shake first.

* * *

**~X~**

_**~Monday, April 8th - 2019~**_

_**London, Soho...**_

After piling Alice into a taxi and handsomely extolling the driver all the required funds to see her safely home, Aziraphale, sans the cash he might well have used to have taken a taxi in the opposite direction, was required instead to catch a bus back to the bookshop.

It wasn't so bad. It wasn't as though he was unaccustomed to taking the bus, after all. The driver was a great deal more conscientious than Crowley concerns safety. He did however miss the comfort of the Bentley. The seats were softer. And he had Crowley's company for another.

Aziraphale might usually have read a book, or caught up on the world's happenings in the newspaper; should he have either in his possession. Done a crossword or two. Being that he had just come from dinner, he of course hadn't bothered with carting such things along with him. It might have appeared rude to have done so. Instead, he used his time in an otherwise productive, through contrarily circulatory, inconclusive manner, to muddle over what Alice had told him during dinner.

About Crowley.

He was ever so worried as to how the demon was coping; or rather NOT coping it would seem. He wondered most of all about the reasons as to why Crowley felt he needed to maintain space between them.

He thought a very great deal about what Alice had said about Crowley feeling as though Aziraphale were ashamed of him.

It was heartbreaking, this particular thought. For Aziraphale might have felt any number of things where Crowley was concerned, but shame was most definitely not a one of them. Not in so far as _being_ ashamed applied.

Aziraphale did in fact feel ever so proud of him. Especially as of late. Crowley was a clever, funny, caring and wonderfully kind person, despite what protests he might have made to the contrary. He worked hard. He was wise and thoughtful and far more courageous than he, Aziraphale, could ever hope to be.

His thoughts drifted (_as they so often did these days_) to the kiss.

He felt in turn that subtle stirring of desire flutter through his chest. The tightening which found space in the gnawing gap in what might otherwise have been a full and contentedly round and protruding stomach.

And once again, those ever present celestial spikes striking up into his mind; like having your fingertip burned for letting it to the edges of a hotplate.

It was immensely frustrating. He _wanted_ to think about the kiss. He _wanted_ to work through it, to explore his own desires concerning it.

He missed his stop; which would have to have been a first. It wasn't a long walk back. He cut his losses, muddling a few additional considerations over in the meantime. Barely missed being hit by cars whilst trailing across the road, distracted by all the tangled avenues which currently wove their befuddling pathways through the recesses of his human shaped skull.

What did the kiss entail? What sort of dynamic did Crowley envision their relationship taking on? Humans who kissed one another habitually developed a new means of interacting with one another. They held hands. They embraced. They kissed; sometimes for a _very _long while. They ran their hands all over one another, sometimes across body parts that were not typically encountered between the likes of cut and dry friends.

They made love.

This was the one of which Aziraphale found most difficult to imagine accommodating naturally, if his and Crowley's relationship were to integrate a... physical component.

He quite liked the idea of holding hands. It seemed very warm and loving. As did the embrace. He felt a little more uncertain concerns the kissing and touching, for this encompassed a sexual element of which the angel was so far the rather unaccustomed to. But he HAD enjoyed the kiss, despite his having some natural reservations given his angelic status.

But_ making love_.

One would be quite wrong to assume that Aziraphale had no such idea as to how these things worked. He'd been around a long time. He'd read many a book. He'd lived through the time of Caligula, which was a learning experience in and of itself. He knew how sex worked between men and women and those of the same sex alike.

And it was a quite wrongly perpetuated myth that homosexuality was considered to be sinful. God could not give two twaddles as to who you slept with, so long as the act was one of informed consent and did not incorporate the likes of children or animals. God wouldn't even care if a person jumped a lawn chair, if the urge so seized them. So long as the lawn chair was appropriately and consensually accommodating where said jumping was concerned, of course.

Besides, it wasn't as though they were in fact _men_. Not in so far as their preternatural spirits were concerned. But their bodies both currently _were_. And that was par the course the form that sex would take for them if they were to engage in the act. The ways in which two human males might initiate physical intimacy.

There could be no means by which to be _physically_ closer.

A thought that was every bit as replete with desire so much as it was anchored by angelic consternations.

Why did the thought of making love with someone to whom he clearly retained extraordinarily feelings of reverence and adoration make him feel somehow... cheap? As though he would be degrading both himself and Crowley in doing so?

It was true that sex was everywhere. The human race had quite a way of wringing the romance out of what Aziraphale viewed as a primarily loving, sacred act and commercialising it much as you might a new feminine hygiene product. Or worse, some sort of caffeinated energy drink.

It all seemed very nice in the books he had read. Especially the books from the days preceding the twentieth century; when it had all become a little bit tawdry. Sex had a sort of piquancy and mysteriousness back then. Now you were lucky if you had but a day when you were not bombarded in some way shape or form by someone's genitalia being all but shoved in your face with an offhand disclaimer concerning subsidiary exceptions to any most sale items not found within the greater London area slapped upon their right buttock.

To say nothing of making love with a _demon_. They had swapped bodies without any observable negative side effects but what would that level of intimacy truly entail? Would they in fact explode if they were to attempt intercourse?

Aziraphale was not quite so pure that he was immune to the double meaning of this internal statement and spent rather so long blushing in the company of himself, that he did in fact breeze right on by the bookshop. It was the ringing of his mobile phone what brought him back to reality. He turned most of his coat pockets inside out before locating the tiny device in the left hand interior compartment. His heart slammed in his chest when he saw Crowley's name and face appear on the screen (_Crowley had of course taken the selfie himself_) and almost fumbled the phone out of his hand in his rush to answer it.

"Yes, hello. Crowley?" His enthusiasm sputtered to a stalling grind at the sounds which erupted now from the speaker of the phone. Not Crowley's expected terse reply to his (_admittedly_) over eager greeting but what was distinctly the strains of Queen (the Bentley's ever eternal soundtrack) a whole lot of yelling and the exchange of physical blows.

**_-Shooting star streaking through the sky, like a tiger_**\- "of my car, you-" _(crack, smack, biffo)_ **\- ****_like lady Godiva, I'm gonna go, go, go-_** "- harpy from Hell!"

And another voice. A horrifyingly familiar voice which struck cold fear into Aziraphale's belly.

"- jussztt want to talk-" **_I'm burnin through the sky, yeah -_** "-stupid bastard!"

Beelzebub. Lord of both flies and infernal regions alike. Currently installed head of Hell. The most dangerous demon in existence.

There with Crowley; the most approachable and_ least_ dangerous demon in existence.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale yelled, his outburst drawing the attention of a few passers-by, some of whom glanced between their respective companions in a silent question as to whether they ought do something beyond staring. (And or filming. A very millennial response, one might say). Aziraphale was not the least aware of them. "Leave him alone, you- you-" he felt those familiar barbs, warning him not to swear. They quite nearly worked. "- bloody... _bounder!_!"

There came a sharp, rather unexpected beeping sound in his ear. He checked the screen. Of all the stupid... he'd forgotten to charge the phone _again_. The battery was about to go flat.

Angelically cursing, heart pounding in his chest, Aziraphale rattled in his pocket for his keys and felt the left hand door of the shop sway inwards as he went towards it. He was so panicked he thought nothing of it in that moment and simply barrelled on through, spearheading for the study desk in which he kept his phone charger.

The Archangel Gabriel's toothy smile was waiting for him centre room, bracketed to one side by the Seraphim Sandalphon's usual solemn expression opined by upturned nose and an upper lip tucked so tight it might have resembled an army privates fitted sheets.

"Hi. Hope you don't mind but we let ourselves-"

He got no further than this before Aziraphale, responding with a high pitched shriek reminiscent of a tea kettle, hurled off and pitched the largest book he could lay his hands to. _(Ever so astute person's might recognize it as being the very same book what Gabriel had picked up when meeting with Aziraphale concerns the coming of the Apocalypse less than a year earlier)._ It thumped bodily into Gabriel's broad chest, dropping to the floor between his smartly booted feet.

"We just want to-"

Aziraphale had no interest in whatever it was that Gabriel wanted. For it was nothing nice, surely. These were the very same angels who had attempted to execute him (_or rather Crowley posing as him)_ by Hellfire. The very fact that they'd had the cheek to just swan on into his home after everything that had happened, to _invite_ themselves in, to _stand there_ with those looks on their faces as though they had quite every right to impose upon the one place in the world that was his and his alone, set something to churning in Aziraphale's effervescent blood.

He would _not_ have it.

Once he might have simpered at their boots but those were days well and truly at his back. He had kept a civil tongue in the past, for he was a civil creature. There was likely no more a gentle, temperate being in all the world. Even the virtues of a Kindness and Temperance would have a run for their money where Aziraphale was concerned.

But his sanctuary had been invaded.

Crowley was in trouble.

And this was quite enough to push what was an otherwise unflappable angel into a well rather flappable state.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks as always everyone for joining me on this bat-shit crazy little journey :) If you have any questions or comments to make about the piece, please feel free to ask! I also, of course, accept concrit.

See you in the next update, and as always, with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	18. Chapter 18

**DISCLAIMER: **Good Omens is very much the property of person's other than myself. Please do not sue me. I'm just a poor little social worker trying to make her way through this cruel world with nothing more than a laptop and a dream. ...And, you know... a few other necessary things like toilet paper, running water and all the other benefits I am able to enjoy. Point being is that I would like to CONTINUE with enjoying them, so please be so kind as to not sue me and take my toilet paper away. Namaste :)

**A/N: **As always, thank you so much to everyone who is reading and following. Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and New Year!

* * *

**~X~**

_**~Monday, April 8th - 2019~**_

_**A.Z Fell and Co's, London Soho**_

_**Nine months to the Apex...**_

Crowley wasn't at all sure what to make of it.

Having taken the corner on two wheels, he had rocketed up to the curb bordering the bookshop and beheld a sight he would never have put money on having_ ever_ come to pass.

The Archangel Gabriel and the Seraphim Sandalphon, two of the utmost venerate and powerful representatives of Heaven, had but moments earlier, burst out through the antique double doors, arms shielding their heads as a veritable deluge of condiments, cutlery, plates, pots, pans and third editions rained down upon them like a vengeful fire from above. Hot English mustard exploded from its glass bottle as it bounced off of Gabriel's pristine coat, teacups shattered into shards around their feet and pages ripped free from books adhered themselves to whatever sticky mess they could lay claim to.

**_GET OOOUUUUUUTT! _**Came the booming sound of an angelic voice pealed directly from the cords of its temporarily unbridled Celestial spirit. It would not have been heard by any of the humans what loitered nearby but was thunderous to the preternatural ears of the nearby angels and demon. Crowley had never heard Aziraphale round off like this before. It was both awesome and terrifying _(and actually sort of arousing)_ in the same instance.

"Got quite a few more stones than what I remember." Sandalphon remarked, scraping what looked to be the remnants of coffee cake off of his shoulder and flicking it onto the ground. Unholy shit. Aziraphale HAD to have been in a mood if he'd gone and hurled leftover desert at the pair of smug bastards.

"Nothing for it. Persistence is a virtue, after all. Or _key, _one or the other." Gabriel stated, straightening the lapels of his mustard stained coat. Neither of them had taken notice of the Bentley parked just offside of them. Nor of the demon what was currently circling its bonnet. "We must force him to listen. By guns blazing, if necessary. Come."

A lot of thoughts went through Crowley's head. They dimmed exorbitantly however, whence compared to the rage of emotion that currently flooded in and otherwise drowned his more often than not prevalent common sense.

The bookshop wasn't just Aziraphale's safe space. It was THEIR safe space. For over two hundred years it had been their sanctuary from most everything; the place they could retreat to and be completely and authentically themselves. Crowley had likely slept there and walked it's stuffy little halls much longer than he had his own fancy flat.

Seeing it burn had been more than enough. But now...now these two presumptuous bastards had the audacity to stroll on in, guns blazing so they said and rip the sacred, unspoken walls of Aziraphale's sanctuary from the angels hands.

They could take a lot from them. But they would not take_ this_.

Crowley was _not_ a fighter. He wasn't in a corner. But his fangs were out nonetheless. He felt venom in his veins. And he prepared himself to bite.

A bite what came in the act of circling about so that he was now installed firmly between the two angels and the doors of the shop. A bite which came, much as a snakes, faster than the eye could track. A bite which was delivered in the form of an expensive snakeskin boot, lodging itself firmly into the waiting clutch of the Archangel Gabriel's 'pornography' region.

"Get back to Heaven,_ sunshine._" Crowley hissed, lips peeled back from his teeth as Gabriel collapsed sideways onto the ground, instantly regretting his decision to have applied male genitalia upon arriving on earth. It was a rather appropriate reflection as to how far ahead he had planned (_or rather, how far he had NOT planned ahead)_ which saw Crowley the imminent recipient of a fully shouldered haymaker from Sandalphon, which knocked the demon into an ungainly pirouette and pitched his glasses clear off of his face.

He had copped most of the fist direct to his kisser, but it was still quite enough force to ring his bell. Enough so that he thought he was imagining the fist that zeroed in just shy of his right ear and connected with Sandalphon's pointed chin.

Aziraphale's strategy was for the most part defensive when it came to confrontation. But he'd had a terribly dreadful last couple of weeks. And now his home had been invaded, he'd feared his dearest most companion dead at the hands of demonic insurgents and, having stepped outside to ensure that the itinerant trespassers had indeed 'buggered off', witnessed said dear companion being struck with quite enough force it would be a blessing if it had not sheared any of his lovely teeth out of his head.

This was an angel pushed most assuredly to the edge of his considerable restraints. He had dealt with any such number of impertinences, inconveniences and otherwise malice intentions concerning his fellow angels, but to see one of them lash out at Crowley was where he most assuredly and incontestably drew the line.

It was a good solid left jab. It was all that was needed. The act of his having done it at all had shocked the designer trousers near off of Gabriel's legs. Or might have done, if his legs weren't currently pressed together so tightly it would have made the act of shirking his trousers in any way shape or form a distinct impossibility.

The punch had been enough to set Sandalphon back a few steps. Aziraphale kept his fists up, prepared for retaliation. Crowley had his fists up too. He wasn't doing a very good job of it. He was chesting up slightly off to the left of where the angels were currently standing and his thumb was inside of his fingers rather than the outside of them. He whirled them about in a manner reminiscent of what a drunk person might look like if they were attempting to milk a cow, head clearly spinning from the aforementioned strike Sandalphon had levelled upon him.

It was still very brave where Crowley was concerned and Aziraphale couldn't have imagined feeling any the more proud of him then he did in that very moment.

"How... _dare you_." He said at length, dropping his fists and straightening his vest with all the fussy austere of someone who hadn't just been hurling half of his walk in pantry out through the door of his shop. "It's not enough that you kidnap me, attempt to execute me by way of Hell fire, talk _down _to me for over six thousand years but now you see fit to intrude upon what little I have that is ostensibly _mine_ and assault my dearest companion. I might have tolerated your contumelious ways in the past, but I am no longer your agent with which to treat as you see both fit and unfit to do so. This is my _home_." A darkness seemed to steal in around him, a sapping of the light which he otherwise might have so naturally exuded. "You will _never_ step foot in here again. _Never_ without my permission."

"Aziraphale..." Gabriel had finally managed to climb to his feet, leaning heavily on Sandalphon's shoulder; who was dabbing at a split in the corner of his lip with his handkerchief. Crowley swayed drunkenly over, parking himself in front of Aziraphale but wobbling about as though he were in fact six bottles in and the worse off for it. Aziraphale took him by the shoulders and eased him back so that he was by his shoulder, rather than dangling out there like a loose tongued fool with a hair trigger on his brain. "We... ooch... why, why, _WHY_ did the Almighty consider _these things_ a clever feature?" He actually spat off to the side, having coughed up something rather unsightly from the depths of his human body. Cleared his throat before continuing. "We need to talk. That's_ all_."

"You got a funny way of asking nice for things. Don't go breakin' in to someone's house first... without knocking. Rule of thumb." Crowley said, swaying a finger about in the air in the somewhat vague direction which encompassed the presence of Gabriel and Sandalphon. Aziraphale took Crowley's hand out of the air and dropped it to his side, giving it a tender squeeze.

"You have nothing to say that would be of interest to me, Gabriel. Though if you feel it ever so important, you will find a contact number in the window. I suggest you write it down, learn to use a telephone and make use of it. You are not to come to the shop again unless invited and..." He raised Crowley's hand, gave a firm pat to the fingers what were looped now resolutely about his own. Unified in the face of their mutual enemies. "Be so kind as to inform Crowley's former associates that they are to keep well shot of him in the future. You would do well to heed the same advice. I suggest you take your leave now, gentleman. My hours of business are well over for the day and I have quite a bit of cleaning up to do."

Both Gabriel and Sandalphon looked very much as though they wished to argue the point. Together they were more than certainly a match for the likes of Aziraphale and Crowley _(particularly where Crowley was concerned)_ but the point of the whole matter was to get the pair of furloughed agents on side, not piss them off past the point of no return.

Neither of them had forgotten Aziraphale's resistance to Hell Fire, either. How he had spat it across the room at them, close enough to near discorporate their celestial eyebrows. He was clearly unpredictable at best and had learned quite a great deal of tricks from his demonic companion. Pushing the issue further was hardly likely to end well for either party.

"Very well." Gabriel said, attempting to maintain some composure whilst battling the irrepressible desire to keep a hand cupped about his much regretted private parts. "I will contact you by..."

"Telephone device." Sandalphon contributed, passing a finger over his lip and healing over the thick band of swelling which had appeared in the past few moments.

"Telephone device and we can... try again. Perhaps in a more_ civilized_ fashion."

"Yes. Perhaps." Aziraphale said, sounding rather more salty than he could ever remember having done so in the past. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he still had a hold of Crowley's hand and the demon had not yet pulled away. It helped. The contact. It likely also helped with keeping Crowley standing up straight. He was still swaying like a slender reed caught in harsh crosswind.

Gabriel and Sandalphon departed by way of the right hand street; Gabriel just about bent in two as he went. Crowley took a few steps after them, letting go of Aziraphale's hand to do so. He shot a very smarmy look at their distant backs, wobbling about on his feet.

"Sure showed 'dem, eh?"

Aziraphale gave an indulgent chuckle. "Yes. Yes, we certainly did."

Crowley spun back around to face him, still weaving about like a dandelion stalk. "You all right? Dey didn't... do anything?"

"I'm fine, I'm not the one who got clocked in the face. You should really sit down before you fall and hit your head on the concrete."

"It's... I could hear all this yelling over the phone. Things getting thrown around." Crowley glanced about at the scattered mess currently taking up residence on the sidewalk outside of the book shop. He glanced back up at Aziraphale, looking slightly impressed. "That was all you?"

Aziraphale kept a very straight and civil face as he placed his hands into the small of his back with all the gentility of an upper class gentleman inviting a prestigious guest into the parlour.

"It's been a rather stressful last couple of weeks. I might have gotten a little... crabby."

Crowley chuckled, nearly tripping up over his own ankles as the world took to swaying about him. "Boy, when you cut loose angel, you sure don't do things in halves." His knees buckled a little and he pressed his fingertips to his temples as his vision swung like a pendulum. "Bless does that Sandalphon pack a punch."

"Of course. All angel's do. Our fists are powered by divine justice." Aziraphale scrunched his nose a little, reaching over to take Crowley by the inside elbow. "Come inside. I'll tend to your lip."

Crowley allowed himself to be guided inside of the shop like a little boy being taken to the toilet by his father. It was chaos most everywhere you looked. It seemed as though Aziraphale had forcefully ejected the entire contents of his kitchen out into the inside of the shop proper. Some bookcases had fallen down, likely in an attempt to squash the pair of trespassing angels and there were scattered pages, spilt liquids and food stuffs splattered hither and thither and yonder.

"You really went all out."

"I had a lot of... feelings to work through." Aziraphale remarked lightly. It made its point, however and Crowley felt the sharp end of it stick tightly into the edges of his heart. He went to say something,_ what_ he wasn't quite sure but Aziraphale made no attempts to drive that point in any further and instead led Crowley over to perch on the settee, kneeling before him.

"You must have made good time getting across the city." He said, taking Crowley's chin lightly between his thumb and fingers and turning his head from side to side. The split to his lip was opened significantly wider than Sandalphon's had been but it would be an easy enough fix. He hesitated however, finding his eyes locked on the swelling, at the bleeding cut running through it much as the demon's pupils branched down the centre of his large eyes.

That very lip had been pressed between his own no less than a week earlier.

Aziraphale felt a stirring.

"Had five cop cars on my arse by the time I hit town. Had to bust all their computers and mess with a few memories so they couldn't track me down after. I lost 'em good enough. More scared I was gonna get here too late." Crowley paused, taking note of Aziraphale's staring. They made ever so brief eye contact, which Crowley broke by looking away; clearing his throat with embarrassment. "So um... had Hastur and Lord Beelzebub waiting for me by the car when I finished work."

"Yes. So I gathered." Aziraphale said, shaking himself out of his trance like state. And then, because Crowley looked at him with some confusion, added: "You must have dropped your phone what with all the excitement going on. I could hear Lord Beelzebub's voice. You were... fighting in the car? There were all these awful noises..."

"Yeah. Yeah, they dropped themselves into the passenger seat. Sorta like what you..." Crowley cleared his throat again, thinking better of making this particular allusion at the last moment. "Anyway. I got the passenger door opened and managed to kick them out."

Aziraphale's perfectly groomed brows graced the lines of his forehead. "I'm sorry, you... you kicked them _out_?"

"Into the side of a tree, yeah. Think I broke every bone in the bastards ribcage. Least I hope so."

"And then you came here and... launched your foot into Gabriel's..."

"Bollocks._ Yep_." Crowley said, popping the P. They were silent a moment, with Aziraphale focusing attention on the healing of Crowley's injury. When the angel's palm had crossed over his vision, Crowley was a little surprised to see Aziraphale now descending into peals of genuine mirth.

"All the things you might have done and _that_ was your first instinct!" He chortled, climbing to his feet and shucking off his dinner coat. He continued to chuckle as he made his way over to the coat rack, sliding on his grey cardigan instead and pulling out the sleeves so that they sat comfortably. "Kicking Lord Beelzebub into the side of a tree and driving your boot into the Archangel Gabriel's scrotum. You are most certainly a force to be reckoned with, Anthony. J Crowley."

"Says the angel who just about decimated his bookshop evicting two former work colleagues." Crowley said glancing about and pulling a face to see something which looked distinctly liked treacle leaking off one of the wall mounted lights. Aziraphale sighed, wringing his fingers together as he glanced anxiously about the trashed interior of the shop.

"I did get rather carried away, didn't I? I was... I was so angry with them and after hearing what was happening over the phone, I was terribly distressed about what was happening to you."

"I'll help you clean up." Crowley offered, climbing up out of his seat and rolling up the sleeves of his jacket. Aziraphale noticed that the demon was missing some buttons off of the front of his shirt, which as a result hung open almost all the way down to his navel.

"Did Lord Beelzebub do that?" He asked, gesturing vaguely towards both the shirt and the bare chest of which it was doing ever so poor a job of covering. He felt the slightest blush alight to his cheeks. It would seem Crowley hadn't put a singlet on underneath today, perhaps having eschewed it after getting changed out of his work uniform.

Crowley glanced down, taking stock of the state his shirt was currently in and gave an offhand sniff.

"Well, ya don't reckon I go around with it looking like this on purpose, do you? This ain't the seventies anymore, angel."

Aziraphale smiled, picking up some books off of the floor and sliding them back onto shelves at random. Apart from his First Editions, this was primarily the operating standard of A.Z. Fell's Rare Book Dealers and so he was not at all bothered by anything being out of order. He knew quite well how to find whatever it was that required finding.

"Well, in any event, I wouldn't want to be keeping you." He kept his eyes focused on the task currently at hand. Easier of course than getting his hopes up and much preferable to Crowley witnessing his anticipation. "I'm sure you have enough business of your own to be getting on with. Besides... it's quite true that I'm the one who made the mess."

Crowley shrugged. "Already outrun half the London police force and copped a smack from an angelic heavyweight for you. Hardly think a bit of light cleaning is going to make much of a difference." He made his way over to the double doors, peeking out to make good and certain no one was watching and then snapped his fingers at the mess currently adhered to on the ground. Splintered glass shards formed back into bottles, complete with the condiments of which once called them home and zipped back through the air to reinstall themselves in Aziraphale's pantry and refrigerator alike. Books scooted back through the doors out of sight, pages reinserting themselves from where they had been forcibly ripped. Food reformed, reassembled and restacked itself. Plates became whole, cutlery flipped itself back into its drawers like a scene from _Beauty and the Beast_ and bookshelves rose up off the floor, bringing their collapsed paper and leather charges with them.

"Bippity-boppety_-boo_." Crowley said, flashing Aziraphale a wink as he waved his hands about merrily in the air; the gesturing demonstrably unrequired but more so as to amuse himself in the process of getting shit done. Aziraphale smiled, permitting himself the use of a little magic as well and before long, the bookshop was looking quite as cluttered, stuffy and homely as it ever had been. Even the treacle had been long since sheared off of the wall mounted light fixture and returned to the jar from whence it had been dramatically flung.

"Many hands do make for light work, so they say." Aziraphale said, taking one last look about to make good and certain that everything was in its proper place. He turned back to Crowley, who was sliding his jacket sleeves back down. It seemed a shame. Something about the way his forearms were exposed struck Aziraphale as being strangely... attractive. "Thank you."

And there he was smiling so beautifully and with such genuine gratitude that it sent Crowley's heart to racing. He didn't even have his glasses with which to shield his embarrassment; they'd been knocked off outside somewhere and he hadn't bothered with chasing after them whilst he was doing the cleaning.

"Ain't nothing." He said, flipping up his collar and staring uncomfortably off somewhere to the left; consumed by interest at the very little that was going on outside of Aziraphale's study window. He felt ever the more uncomfortable when his human stomach emitted a loud, unmistakeably hunger related grumble.

"Have you eaten much today?" Aziraphale asked, thinking it might have been one of those questions Crowley would single out as being particularly stupid. Sure enough:

"If I had, do you suppose my stomach might be making those sorts of noises? I'm either hungry, or something else rather alarming is going on."

"No need to get ornery. I was _going_ to offer to make you a sandwich."

"Really ought to get going." Crowley swayed a shoulder back towards the door, making very little concerted efforts in fact to extract himself from the situation. It was easier to stay away when he wasn't face to face with Aziraphale; feeling the warm pull of his presence, the draw of his kind smile. Once caught up in the wake of it all, he could feel himself being inexorably drawn in; such as a boat caught in the grip of a tidal pool.

It would be the smart thing to do. To leave. It would be better for the both of them.

"Please. I owe you for the clean up. Why don't you just stay long enough have a bite to eat and a drink? Then you can at least be on your way with a full belly."

Crowley didn't of course _need _to eat. It was habit, more than anything. Besides, he had food at home. He certainly had more than enough alcohol. Alcohol enough to contend with most any bottle shop within a twenty mile radius.

But if he went home he himself would have to cook something. He supposed he could pick up dinner on the way but still... why turn down the offer of a sandwich? Aziraphale might have been a very mediocre cook, but he could pile up the components of which to create an especially delicious sandwich like no other. Plus, he kept the very best bottles of wine in the shop; those special vintages that he and Crowley collected throughout the years and had agreed to keep in the back room for those special occasions what required liquid libation of the more reposed variety.

He knew he was bandying about any number of reasons to accept the offer but none of them were anywhere near quite as true as that which was currently swaying him with greatest propensity still.

He_ missed_ Aziraphale.

He _missed_ the bookshop.

He missed the _everything_ about them.

He wanted to stay. Even just a half hour longer.

"Got any good reds you don't mind cracking?"

Aziraphale smiled with pure radiant happiness, warmth flooding out the tight feeling what had held sway over his chest those past few months. "I've got that lovely bottle of Graham that you picked up some months back. I shouldn't mind 'cracking' that at all."

Crowley made himself at home in his usual perch in the corner settee. It had been two months since he had sat there but the material still adhered to the shape of his body as though it were in fact a lover embracing him after so long apart. He didn't sling his legs up and make himself especially comfortable. He knew that if he did, he likely wouldn't be getting up for some time and this was a risk he couldn't permit himself to take.

"What do you suppose they wanted?" Aziraphale called out from the kitchenette, taking out bread which had only just been returned to the breadbox and spreading on butter which had been magically scraped off of the wallpaper.

"Checking up on us, maybe. Not sure. Keep your wits about you though, yeah?" Crowley sniffed the air, pulling a face at the lingering hint of Gabriel and Sandalphon's mingled musk's. Too bad there was no supernatural deodorizer what could mute that cack out. "Can't be coming to your rescue all the time."

"No. No I suppose not." Aziraphale chuckled. He paused, midway through stacking a selection of salami and swiss cheese. Should he chance sharing just a little of what he was feeling? "It's..." He swallowed. Chanced it. "It's so lovely to hear your voice."

"… It's good to hear your voice too." Crowley admitted, something what was a little tender leaking into his tone. He didn't turn tail and charge out of the bookshop howling bloody murder, which Aziraphale considered a very good thing.

"Are you well?" He asked, tugging the cork out of the bottle of Graham and pouring a generous helping into two matching glasses.

"Well as can be keeping. Jeanie had her baby so I've been keeping busy hours at work." He glanced up as Aziraphale wandered out from the kitchenette, passing him over the small plate on which his stacked sandwich had been set and the glass of red. He returned briefly to fetch his own before settling down into his study chair, as per their tradition. "Don't think Hell ever kept me so busy as this job. It's been good though. Old Gretch keeps me on my toes."

"I'm sure she does." Aziraphale said, feeling ever so chuffed and relieved and tickled by the fact that they were, much as they had always been, back in the routine what was ever so effortlessly their own.

* * *

They talked for a while in this casual vein; touching on Crowley's work life, Aziraphale's business. Spent a good old while laughing over the rambunctious exchange between the angels and the demons and wondered just how embarrassed both parties must have felt to have been outdone by the likes of such reportedly substandard creatures as Aziraphale and Crowley.

They didn't speak about the kiss. It was starting to feel rather to Aziraphale as though it might very well have been a bizarre dream that he'd had. He was happy as such to go about pretending that it had been nothing more the concrete than this. For a while there it was as though... nothing at all had happened. They were, much as they had ever been. Relaxed and happy. It was wonderful. It was a relief.

It was... somehow disappointing.

"How about you?" Crowley eventually asked, as much of the conversation had been dancing about the borders of their work and the encroachment of their once respective agencies. "You doing okay?"

"Oh, yes." Aziraphale smiled, sipping from his now nearly depleted glass of red wine and tilting his head from side to side to form an agreeable gesture. "You know me. Just puttering along as I do."

"Keeping tickety-boo?"

Aziraphale laughed. "Quite." He paused a moment. Considered. The feelings what he had kept at bay over the past half hour popped to the surface like a balloon what had been held underwater by hands unseen and suddenly released. He couldn't understand why. Why it was happening but... but his lip had started to tremble. There was sadness welling up. And anger and... _resentment_. "Well… not quite. Not really. Not tickety-boo at all, really."

Crowley knew quite well the look what was springing into full bloom on the angel's face. It was telling enough that his smile had disappeared, for it was almost always a natural constant. "Aziraphale-"

"I heard you got into a fight." _Why, why? WHY was he doing this?! Things had been going so well, WHY was he ruining it?!_ "Not... tonight, not with that lot but with... with a human. While you were out drinking."

"Who have you been talking to?" Crowley asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Aziraphale barrelled on ahead, not paying the question but a jot of attention.

"It's not like you at all. You hate conflict. I just don't understand why you would go and do something like that. And with a human of all things!"

"One of the work girls has been onto you, haven't they? Who was it? Alice?"

"I'm not at liberty to betray my sources." Aziraphale said. "And_ I_ was the one who got in contact with her."

It had taken him ages to learn how to use that Facebook messaging thing and he was rather the proud for having muddled it out without Crowley's assistance. Judging from the annoyed look on the demon's face however, this was not something that he was going to celebrating the achievements of anytime soon.

"Oh, so _stalking_ me now, are you? Great job you're doing at respecting my wishes."

"Because your wishes are _stupid_!" Aziraphale yelled, shocking himself quite as much as he had indeed shocked Crowley. He had gotten to his feet at some point and was standing over the settee, feeling every raw inch of emotion he had otherwise sequestered, come spilling out as largely unfiltered as a creature such as Aziraphale was capable. "Here I am, day after day worried _sick_ about you and you won't touch base, you won't communicate with me. What else am I supposed to do? Just sit around waiting to find out that you're dead?!"

"Well whatever it is you choose to do, maybe don't go and involve my work colleagues in our personal affairs, _that_ might be a good start!" Crowley shot back, also on his feet and still clutching his glass of red, which he swigged from between exchanges. He tried to keep some space between them. It was clear that getting too close when their emotions were this high was a recipe for... well, any number of things. Things he wasn't sure they ought be introducing at this delicate juncture.

From a corner of Aziraphale's brain came a tiny, irresolute voice, screaming for him to shut this entire exchange down now before something was said which could not be unsaid. But he just couldn't seem to stop. There was something stronger at play here. Keeping all of this pain, frustration and anger cooped up inside of himself these past few months, coupled with the loneliness and the waking of unfamiliar tides of desire and longing, was altogether too much. He had missed Crowley beyond the point of being able to tolerate it and resented him all the more for having brought him to a place such as this. To have brought them _both_ to this awful place.

"Well I would have hardly have felt the need if you had just bothered to get in contact with me! And just so as you know, your work colleagues are worried about you too." This certainly had something of an impact on Crowley, whose eyes widened ever so slightly; uncertainly. "They say you're drinking too much and going out all the time and… well the fighting!"

"Un-bunch your feathers, it was hardly a fight." Crowley said, taking another gulp from his wine. "I outran him eventually."

"I just think that given the change in circumstances… what with…" Aziraphale gestured vaguely towards the street, taking a few deep breaths so as to try to ease the flush of adrenaline out of his system. "-_that lot_ popping up again, that it would be prudent of us to work through whatever it is that we are going through and stand as a united front. Can you imagine the damage they can do if we were to remain divided like this?"

"We're not_ divided_, Aziraphale." Crowley said, softening. He had a look on his face, as though he might very well have liked to have crossed the room and brought himself closer. But he kept his distance. "Regardless of what other difficulties we might be experiencing, I will _always_ be in your corner. Hiding behind your back most likely, but I'll always_ have_ your back, so to speak. Nothing changes in that regard. If you need me, I'll be here."

"I need you _now._" Aziraphale murmured, his voice cracking with emotion. He couldn't quite believe that he had said such words out loud. He had never felt the more desperate however. He knew in that moment that he was about to go there. To stumble onto the thing they had both been avoiding discussing the whole while they'd sat there; playing happy families.

"And I need time to pull my head together. I'm not quite there yet. You're going too fast for _me_, right now."

"Crowley… we… you kissed me."

Aziraphale knew right away that he had managed to say something wrong again. Crowley was giving him that sad, knowing look; the one which said that the angel was looking at things from a skewed angle and it was altogether much too expected.

"Yeah._ I_ kissed _you_. That's what I'm trying to get my head around at the moment." He swilled the last little snifter of wine about the base of the glass before knocking it back. He set the glass down upon the table bordering the settee and gave Aziraphale a small, supportive smile. "… Call me if the big wings start hassling you again."

"Crowley, please-"

The look which he now chanced Aziraphale with spoke of the ever truer nature of the demon's desires. Wanting to cross the room, rather than light on out into the waiting grip of the night. To purvey tender words and touches, to hold and to be held. To kiss and to take that kiss to depths so far uncharted, to surrender to the grip of that foundling thirst, fuelled by coals which burned ever hotter in the core of his being and stoked fire to the kindling heaped in upon it.

It was a fire what might burn apart the very essence of what it was that made Aziraphale so utterly desirable and appealing and beguiling to Crowley. His eternal temperance, his unsullied enthusiasm for what goodness was on offer in the world, his... for lack of a better word, innocence.

Crowley permitted himself but a moment longer to glance his eyes over Aziraphale's form; to commit it to memory. The angel stared back at him, lips pressed together so tightly they formed a line so straight and thin it might have resembled the slice of a sharp knife into the side of an apple. His fingers twined together. He wanted to go to Crowley, pull him in out of the doorway and bring him into the fold of his arms. Make him stay, work through it, _talk through it._

_Kiss him._

And those spikes, ever present stole up inside of him and slammed into his mind with such ferocity that it near knocked the fledgling formation of desire into a thousand tiny pieces.

_I can't. How could I possibly...?_

_I _want_ to. I want to_ feel_ that again._

_That ever so sweet ache in my chest. Our palms upon one another's faces. Our breaths stealing in over one another's lips, burying deep within our lungs._

_The touch of his tongue..._

Aziraphale hesitated, struck numb beneath the violent, conflicting nature of his thoughts and his desires. Crowley, tired and frustrated, shook his head.

"You can't do it, can you? You can't even take that _one step."_

To Aziraphale it was like a cord had suddenly wrapped itself tight about his tongue to form a complicated knot. He wanted ever do desperately to _say _something, to _do _something. To take that step and prove to both Crowley and to himself that things _could _change. And they could change for the better.

_I _want _this. Please don't go. Please don't leave me alone again. I'm dying more inside every day for being without you._

_You are what is most dear and precious to me. You are irreplaceable. I'm nothing without you. _

_I will go with you. Anywhere you want to go. However fast. At whatever ridiculous, break neck speed you deem fit. You have been ever so patient and I _know _that. I see that. And I'm sorry I made you wait so long, I'm sorry that I've hurt you, I'm sorry that I'm worse than a terrible fool, that I have been negligent and selfish and loyal to all the wrong person's and all the wrong causes and that it is you who has always forgiven me for that, even though you are a demon and I am supposed to have been the divine one._

_I am _not _ashamed of you. I am prouder of you than you will ever know. Every day I look at you and I am astonished and smitten and utterly undone by everything that you are and everything you do. _

_You are not just the great love of my life, you are the _only _love of my life._

The words would not come.

He could not speak.

He could not move.

The fear gripped everything what was not the well from whence his emotions sprang, gripped them with iron claws and sank deep. Pain and sickness welled up in his chest, that failsafe going into survival mode once more.

* * *

**_Do not turn your back on Heaven_**

**_There is but one true love and that love is to your God _**

**_You will damn yourself _**

**_He is Fallen_**

**_He doesn't love you _**

**_He wants you to fall _**

**_He's deceiving you _**

**_Tempting you_**

**_It's what they do _**

**_The apple_**

**_Just like the apple_**

* * *

Crowley could sense Aziraphale's struggle, though he hadn't a true understanding of just how painful and complex the degree of that struggle was. He wasn't feeling quite as charitable as he might ordinarily have felt where the angel was concerned, but simply all the more exhausted than he could remember being in a long time. Frustrated by it all, helpless in the face of Aziraphale's hereditary prison, he sighed; a sigh which eased out not even but a bare inch of what he was feeling inside and crossed over to the entryway.

"Take care of yourself, sweetheart." He said, giving the angel another small, all the sadder smile, as he pushed through the right hand door and allowed it to swing slowly shut behind him.

Aziraphale felt a scream welling up inside of him, one which he had heard before but had quite usually had the presence of mind to contain. Not this time. As the claws eased out of his body, contented it seemed in having prohibited his taking action when the demon was in the room, the locks which had slammed shut on each particular lid of Aziraphale's emotions snapped through and everything contained therein came pouring out like water loosed from an overflowing dam.

"Stupid, gormless-" He flung his glass, still not entirely empty and it smashed apart on the corner of the nearest bookshelf. "-_BASTARD!_" He yelled, directed not at Crowley but rather at himself. Uncharacteristically unconcerned with the spattering of red wine now adding itself to the various stains having previously been left behind by Crowley on some of his less careful nights, Aziraphale sank down into his study chair, slamming the heel of his hand into his forehead.

"What is _wrong_ with you?!" He sobbed, tears streaming down his face. Why was he so insistent on having to ruin things for himself? Why couldn't he just act on what it was he was feeling? Grant both he and Crowley what it was that they both clearly wanted?

Tell him that he loved him. Loved him quite every bit as much as Crowley loved him.

Wanted him, just the same.

_Why?_

* * *

From outside, Crowley had heard the smash, had heard the yelling and it startled him quite as rightly as it ought to have done. He could never have envisioned Aziraphale doing such an uncouth thing as pitching a glass across the room.

He thought about going back inside. Thought better of it.

_No,_ he decided, sliding on into the Bentley and using the key this time to get it started. He peeled away from the curb, dashing his fingers about his own eyes as he did. Knocking those awful, pointless and insulting tears away as best he could._ I can't be the one to take those steps forward on his behalf. Not anymore._

Aziraphale had been firmly rooted in place for so many thousands of years. Resistant, as was his nature, to any change that might threaten that to which his spirit was so ever acutely accustomed.

The only means forward, Crowley knew, was for Aziraphale now to move towards _him_.

To match his speed.

And meet him where he had been so patiently waiting for all those six thousand years, since the angel had held his hands between his own, sheltered him within the canopy of his wings and prayed for absolution on his behalf.

_I have loved you so very long_, Crowley thought, reaching into the compartment on his console where he kept his spare sets of sunglasses and sliding on another near matching pair to those he had lost earlier. _I can wait longer still. However long it might take for you to reach that place of peace, Aziraphale. I'll not push you there. I'll not rush you there. I'll simply wait for you there._

_Just take that one step forward._

_And the rest will follow._

Crowley spent ever so long during that car ride across town, trying to convince himself that it was but a matter of perhaps a little more time, so far as Aziraphale was concerned. Just a little more time.

He could not however shake the persistent and heart breaking thought, the one which he unintentionally felt ever the more convinced of by the moment, that time was not of the essence so far as this was concerned.

That for six thousand years, both he and Aziraphale had been riding completely different waves. He thought that their waves would eventually crash upon the shore of the same beach. It seemed more likely by the moment, however, that theirs were tides what were taking them in separate directions.

And Crowley felt himself stranded upon that distant shore, the one of which Aziraphale would never set foot, watching the waves carry the person he loved further adrift by the moment and who made no efforts to turn the keel and fight against the flow of the tides.

Just like in Heaven all those thousands of years ago, Aziraphale was letting his fingers slip slowly through his own. Directed still by the inert designs of the realm to which he no longer owed allegiance but what still held indisputable sway.

Aziraphale would not fight for Crowley.

Not in the way that truly mattered.

And _that _was what even a demon found so very hard to forgive.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N:** If you enjoyed, please feel free to share the whys, or if not, the why not's. You may favourite and follow. Or you may send an offering of a small goat and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc which retails at anything ranging from twenty-five pounds to thirty-five pounds. Well fancy, I am.

Thankyou as ever for joining me, my lovelies. Feel free to hook back in the next chapter, where Aziraphale gets ever the more drastic in his attempts to repair his relationship with Crowley, whilst their former associates reassess as to how they might set up a meeting with two very emotional beings who are just as likely to throw hands with them, as they are to... well, reel off and kick them in the nuts.

Until then and with all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	19. Chapter 19

**DISCLAIMER:** Good Omens does not belong to me. Obviously. (Hurls scrap of paper into the river where it promptly bursts into flame).

**A/N:** Something I headcannon, at least so far as this story is concerned, is the way in which angels and demons spiritual abilities differentiates. I know that in the book we have a scene where Crowley breathes life into a dove that Aziraphale accidentally smothered in his sleeve but I prefer to think of angels being the ones in primary possession of intensive healing magic.

I imagine that demons may have the ability to heal smaller wounds but the healing is not quite as effective and doesn't always take. That's the vein that this story is going to follow, anyway.

And so, another update. Please feel free to grab a snack, your very favourite libation and take a read and I shall see on the flip side for a few additional thoughts.

**~X~**

* * *

_**~Monday, April 8th - 2019~**_

**_The Dog & Duck, London Soho_**

_**Nine months to the Apex...**_

A public house was hardly a distinguished locale in which to host a last minute angelic/demonic tête-à-tête. But it was certainly far the more suited whence compared to the likes of a video arcade, they had all agreed. Less of a chance this way of Hastur rendering his human body broken and worthless by otherwise repeated attempts to thrash an endless parade of teenagers, each more pus-flecked than the last, at the seductive sirens lure what was _Dance, Dance, Revolution._

Humans it would seem possessed an insatiable need to flock to public houses of an evening, Gabriel observed. To flitter amongst the accumulated odour of one another's constantly expunging sweat glands, to slaughter an endless parade of alcoholic beverages and speak at a progressively louder (and distinctively more the slurred) cadence as the night wore on. Combine this then with the strains of an ancient juke box which did not play its tunes so much as ooze them and the cracking of wooden cues striking the sides of billiard balls, it was far the simpler to hold a conversation without fear of being overheard. Even when squeezed into what might have been described as an 'intimate' corner booth, it proved difficult to catch what any of them might in fact have been saying.

Not that there was much to be said that first half hour. The majority of the collective sat simply in a sort of stunned silence, staring over the table at one Archangel Gabriel who looked very sore and sorry for himself and an ever so delicately bored as usual Lord of all Hell Beelzebub who was twirling a swizzle stick around the base of their honey malt whiskey.

"Well," they finally said, with the air of one whom had been mulling some more the interesting conclusions about in their head. "That went down like a lead balloon."

Gabriel, ever so intensely preoccupied by the pain radiating from the region betwixt his thighs, didn't quite catch this. "... I'm sorry... what?"

"I said, that went down like a - Oh forget it." Beelzebub tossed the swizzle stick onto the table churlishly and took a hefty swig from their drink. Across from them and squeezed in far the more intimately than the both of them preferred, Hastur was staring at Sandalphon's pinched expression from a distance far too close for the angel's comfort.

"He punched you? ..._That_ little powder puff?"

Sandalphon, healed upper lip just about forced into both nostrils, nodded in the very vague direction that the odorous demon currently (and offensively) occupied. Hastur in response, could not have looked more the thrilled than if Christmas had just gone and landed square in his stinky little lap.

"I think I'm starting to like that Aziraphale." He chuckled, sipping from his Rob Roy in a strangely dainty manner. He splashed a little of it onto his gloved hand as Sandalphon shifted uncomfortably on the far too small a bench space.

"Why am I stuck sitting next to you on a booth?" He tersely questioned, face directed away so that he was less the likely to incur the putrid waft of the demon's mouldy breath.

"What you think I _asked_ to be sat here? I'm quite as shot of you, don't you worry." Hastur shoved his hip sideways, forcing the angel over a couple of much needed inches. " And could you move over? Your arse is currently crossing the line."

"Well I can't very well control where it goes! If I move over any more I'll be on the floor."

"Fine by me."

"Sounds like we missed quite a party." Uriel remarked, raising her voice so as to be heard both above the din in the pub and the bickering of the angel and demon to her immediate left.

"A shame Crowley's boot didn't miss more of Gabriel's 'party'." Beelzebub made an offhand gesture towards Gabriel's crotch with the base of their glass, enough to cause the angel to flinch reflexively away. "Why did you feel the need to affix those unfortunate things anyway? Asking for trouble, that."

"I had to go and get a trouser fitting. Couldn't risk the attendant realizing something was awry." The archangel attempted to cross his legs and thought better of it.

"Well your own bloody fault then. Won't see me having much sympathy."

"I healed your broken ribs, I would expect something somewhat akin to sympathy for _that_ much at least."

"Why not just go ahead and heal your bloody love spuds then and stop griping about it?" Dagon suggested, attempting to peel the label from the side of her beer bottle with very limited success. Scraps of torn paper littered the table in front of her, which Uriel had started sectioning into neat little piles.

"This is hardly a discorporal issue. I am _not_ Aziraphale and I do not condone the whipping out of frivolous miracles left right and centre. I expect that this... in time... will alleviate." Gabriel shifted in his seat, hissing from between his teeth. Gosh darn did that demon have some ever so offensively pointy shoes. "_God I hope so_."

"I don't know if I would be asking your God for much of anything right now, Archangel." Beelzebub murmured, unable to keep the smallest of satisfied smiles from gracing their lips. Michael held a cautionary finger up to their Cupid's bow, casting a glance towards the door as they did.

"Careful. We don't want to go and attract the wrong attention."

They were quiet a moment, casting surreptitious eyes about the interior of the bar. The Vices and Virtues were all due to convene in London for whatever the reason and who was to say whether their appearances might have changed during their six thousand year retirement on earth. They might have been there even now, spattered amidst the gaggle of drunken humans; going about whatever business was required preceding the coming of the so called Apex. It was a contrarily sobering thought and one which encouraged the group to lean in closer still, in spite of some obvious reluctance to do so.

"It wasn't as though we were expecting they'd be pleased to see us." Uriel murmured in reference to Crowley and Aziraphale. She frowned as Dagon ripped free another longer shred from her label and deposited it dead centre on the table.

"I thought we might at least get a word in edgewise." Gabriel grumbled, trying to recall what it was that humans might have utilized so as to take the sting out of what was turning out to be a most indescribable and not at all otherwise dimming, pain.

"Never mind what Crowley got in edgewise." Beelzebub said with that not often seen little smile peeking out from behind the rim of their glass. Gabriel smacked his palm lightly to the table, eyes cast to the ceiling as his celestial patience wore ever closer to thin.

"Yes, _all right_, it's all_ very_ funny that the demon kicked me in the human testicles, can we _please_ move on?"

"You weren't able to get across our proposition?" Dagon managed to enquire amidst the rupture of snickering Gabriel's near outburst elicited from the demons. Sandalphon took a short sabbatical from his and Hastur's repeated attempts to usurp one another from their begrudgingly shared seat cushion to reply.

"Not a word of it. Aziraphale was clearly in no mood to listen." He glanced a finger to his lip, somewhat still in awe of the punch that the predominantly pacifistic angel had graced him with. It had been many thousands of years since Aziraphale had, so far as they were aware, engaged in combat of any kind. His form however had not diminished, it would seem.

"And Crowley waz ridiculous as per usual." Beelzebub took another sip from their drink, thinking back to the aforementioned ludicrous situation of less than an hour past. Crowley's legs windmilling around whilst the car continued inexplicably moving forwards. Their own subsequent ejection into the side of an elm and the then intolerable embarrassment of having to request an intensive healing from none other than Gabriel himself. "I know their little ears'd prick up if we managed to grab 'em for five minutes, but it's getting them to stand still long enough to talk that's proving tiresome." They scratched out some lines across the paperwork they had been forced to haul above ground; a considerable pile having formed by their elbow and piling so high it near graced the dangling legs of their blow fly hat. Hell was still without a leader and Beelzebub's workload was, in spite of the withdrawal of all demonic interference on earth, quite a great deal more than they could ever seem to get on top of.

"You take down that number from the bookshops window?" Gabriel asked Sandalphon who nodded and petted a hand to the breast pocket of his trench coat. "We'll try it tomorrow then. See if we can't get Aziraphale to cut the cheek long enough to have a civilized conversation."

"What about you?" Michael asked of the demon collective. "You can communicate through media devices can you not? Have you tried utilizing any of that to get a hold of Crowley?"

"Yes, _of course_." Dagon sniffed, looking annoyed for the impertinence of having even been asked so obvious a question. "No joy. He's draped a sheet or something over his televisions and every time I attempt to tap into one of his music devices he's either shut it down, set it on fire or smashed it with a golf club."

She had only known in fact that this was what Crowley had been doing because the demon had gleefully informed them of the fact right before the imminent crashing sounds had just about blown Dagon's eardrums out of her skull. If Crowley had ever bothered to put some of that solid backswing into actual combat he might not have been a poor investment as a front line operative. A shame he had the backbone of a bottom feeding invertebrate.

Gabriel raked his fingers back through his hair, sweat pricking across the worrisome lines of his forehead. "It's intolerable. We're running out of time. Doesn't the demon have a mobile telephone device? Have you tried that?"

"He never gave that number to any of us. Had us well convinced it was just for earth based business only." Beelzebub grimaced, struck another notation through a page with such contempt that the paper ripped and a line of ink bleed across the grain of the tabletop. "When I think of how much I let that little snot nose get away with-"

"You- you think _that's_ bad?!" Gabriel spluttered. "When I think about all the underhandedness Aziraphale got away with... Conducting evil deeds on behalf of... well,_ your_ side all these years!" He shuddered just so as to imagine the inherent mishandling he was more than partly the responsible for. Six thousand years and the most he had done was issue Aziraphale with a strongly worded warning about cutting back on the amount of frivolous miracles he'd been conducting. If he had simply taken the time to have checked as to what _precisely_ the nature of those miracles were...

They had all allowed themselves to be played for fools; assuming that Aziraphale was much too glib and well meaning and moral to be led astray. Say what you will of Crowley, but he was clearly an astute and cunning breed of demon if he had managed to talk an angel about to playing the collective sum of Heaven's elite like the big, ignorant cello's they were.

"Never the mind that you had a demon whipping good deeds out of his back pocket like it was a novelty new card trick." Beelzebub whisked the completed document out off of the top of the stack and shifted it to the side. Only several thousand more to go. "Like I've already said, we've all gotten fucked over, we're all in the same boat up the same shit creek with toothpicks for oars and no wet wipes. The sooner we quit griping about the past and figure out what we're going to do regards the future-"

"Yes, speaking_ of_ the future," Michael said, earning a look of reproach from Beelzebub for interrupting. "-the two of you have been the slightest bit circumspect regarding this. What exactly is so concerning that you feel we need to involve two expunged agents? Never the mind the rest of us."

In the days before the Fall, Gabriel and the Angel-What-Would-Become-Beelzebub had once been able to communicate a great deal of their thoughts and feelings in but the meeting of a simple gaze alone. Though the foundations had shifted dramatically, the core of this historic exchange continued to translate quite as fluidly as it had ever done and they shared a look now which might, between others, might very well have encompassed an entire spoken conversation. They agreed (strange though it still was for an angel and a demon to be largely simpatico on most anything) that it was appropriate to share with the others the depth of their unease and both sat up a little straighter in their seats.

"Something in the contract in particular." Gabriel said, with another visible wince. Shifting in his seat had not helped. "Besides the date on the cannister, of course."

"What exactly?"

"The wording used." Said Lord Beelzebub, putting down their pen and picking up their drink instead. "All. _All_ shall be judged."

They allowed silence in which to allow for this heavy and incontestably alarming nuance to sink in. Michael and Dagon in particular appeared to understand without further clarification as to just why this indelicate wording was particularly troubling but the others continued to look a little confused by it.

"There's no _context_ around this." Gabriel stressed. "_All_ could pertain to the entire human race-"

"- or it could pertain, as we suspect to _all_." Beelzebub concluded, swilling the last remaining snifter of golden liquid about the base of their glass. Not really focusing on it, but using the motion as a sort of soothing mechanism for their troubled thoughts. "Not just the souls of the human race but _all souls_ under God."

This explanation left no bones as to the reasons why Gabriel and Beelzebub were particularly worried. It seemed fitting that for the first time in recorded history, a number of demons and angels wore the very same expression of fear and confusion upon their human faces.

"You see our quandary." Gabriel said. "If we do not act and act swiftly it is not a war what will be coming but a penultimate nullification of most everything."

"Erasure." Beelzebub enunciated further; as though the fear presented by Gabriel's statement alone was not quite enough to send the gathering to quivering beneath their earthly garments. "A do over. Noah's ark for _all_ creation."

"Only no Ark." Uriel stated. Gabriel gave a small shake of his head.

"No Ark."

No way out. No salvation for a one of them. God's plan was not it seemed to permit Her creations to resolve their age old disputes through war but to wipe it all clean like a cloth across a densely scralwed upon whiteboard and start fresh.

She had done the same with the human race when She had no longer been able to abide Her disappointment in them. Perhaps She too had grown tired and wearisome of the rift between Her other children.

"... I do hope that you are wrong about all this." Michael said softly; their faith giving an ever so tremulous waver. It was thunderous. "Because if you're not, the fate of_ everything_ is going to rest with us being able to convince a pair of wholly substandard, jaded ex-employees to act on our behalf in investigating a plan which has apparently been set in place since before time on earth began and potentially inciting the wrath of beings not only mightier than we, but that of the Lord God Herself."

Gabriel, lips pressed so tightly together they were just about non-existent, simply nodded, the severity of the situation all but having faded the worst of the pain from his attentions. Michael stiffened in their seat, the blood what might have resided in their human face all but draining visibly from their cheeks and down into their neck. They reached over, without even looking and plucked up Hastur's drink from within the loose clutch of the demons fingers.

"Hey!" Hastur protested, otherwise making no move so as to try and prevent the act from going forth. It was about as interesting as it was impertinent and both things were a sight not often affiliated with the likes of the celestial agents.

"I'm an angel, I'll buy you another one." Michael threw back the drink in one go, flinched at the strong, unfamiliar sensation of the alcohol hitting the rear of their throat. They swallowed, blinked heavily mascaraed eyes and sighed down into the now empty glass. "Mm. Staring to see why Aziraphale buys into all this." They waved the glass about. "How long until this stuff kicks in?"

"For you Wank-Wings? Probably about half a minute." Hastur chuckled. Gabriel dithered in his seat, mouth agog for what he had just witnessed.

"Please Michael. As if things weren't bad enough." His consternations were however made just a little more... flexible by the unspoken permission Michael had unintentionally bestowed. It would be... a relief, he thought to himself, to shut off some of that fierce anxiety what had been holding court in his chest these past few months. Not to mention shave off some of the pain from the injury he was currently nursing. He reached over to where Beelzebub had set their drink down, fingertips grazing the rim of the glass. "Maybe just a-"

The demons petite fist smashed hard and unhesitatingly into Gabriel's still tender groin, sending him toppling from his chair with a high pitched squeal that set all the local dogs to howling.

"Buy your own, you angelic skint flint." They said, snatching their drink back up and tossing what remained into their mouth with a sailor like proficiency. They had a headache, which was hardly improved by the added screech emitted by Hastur from the other side of the table, battering his hands wildly at Sandalphon who was holding up what looked like a perfume atomizer with a tasseled spray pump.

"The blessed Seraphim is _spritzing_ me with something!" Dramatically shrieked the Duke of Hell, coughing at the oversaturation of potent musk suddenly permeating the air.

"It's just_ cologne_ and if I'm expected to sit here in your company for the next goodness only knows how long, I'd prefer you not get around smelling like a dead fish!"

"Now he just smells like a dead fish on its first date." Uriel remarked as Hastur and Sandalphon got to fighting over the atomizer like two children vying for possession of the very best toy truck in the Kindergarten sandpit. Beelzebub groaned, waving a hand to beckon the waitress over, wondering just how many drinks it was going to take before any of this became just a little less painful.

**~X~**

* * *

_**Crowley's flat - London Mayfair...**_

In a posh flat on the rather more affluent side of town, another demon was lying awake. His eyes were sore. He would hate to admit it, hate all the more for anyone to have witnessed it, but he had been crying.

He was awful tired and would have very much liked to have drifted off to sleep, but his thoughts were racing. He'd had so much to drink that you couldn't imagine anything could _possibly_ race in such an inebriated state; not without tangling up its own metaphorical legs and sending itself hurtling through the crash barrier. But Crowley's was a habitually busy brain and the evening preceding had done anything but instil restful thoughts.

The swirling, alcohol drenched fog of his mind was currently occupied by one thing in particular. Or rather one _word_ in particular.

The _N_ word.

_Nice._

It wasn't so much that nice was a trigger word for Crowley. More that it was... a four letter word.

Four letter words, he thought, were notorious for being some of the very worst that the English language had ever devised. Short and sharp enough to really cut in there and cut deep. Do some serious damage.

All the very worst words were four letter words. Crowley had come up with a great deal of them, in fact. _Pain, shit, fuck, cunt, feel, hurt, jinx, poxy, jape, dill_ and of course,_ duck. _There were far more, of course. He had attempted listing them so as to suitably bore his brain into nodding off to sleep but that one little niggling word just kept on slinking right back in and jamming its grubby fingernail into his mind.

Nice. Now,_ there_ was a word what really rubbed Crowley up the wrong way. It was a horrid, nasty, _demeaning_ little word. Aziraphale knew how he felt about it. And was still loose lipped concerning it.

Crowley could not remember a time, in all his long existence, when he had ever felt more insulted and tooth splinteringly infuriated with anyone.

Nice. _"You really are quite a nice..."_

_"You don't get to say that,"_ Is what he had wanted to say, when he had shoved Aziraphale just about clear through the wall of the Once-Satanic-Nuns-Chattering-Order-of-Beryl-convent. Had _needed_ to say. _Should_ have said. _"You don't get to call me nice. You rejected me, no you _negated_ the possibility of me by virtue of the fact that I'm_ not_ nice enough. I'm a demon and angels, as you so often remind me, can't play _'nice'_ with demons._

_If they could, we wouldn't even be needing to have this exchange. We could have just... been. Whatever form this 'been' takes._

_From the moment we had exchanged those very first words of greeting upon the wall of Eden, our roles had been explicitly defined. I rose, ironically and you descended. All that mattered, it seemed, was from where we had originally hailed. Not the individual. It didn't matter that I had only been guilty of having too much cheek. Asking too many difficult questions and not taking 'no' for an answer. That I had been having a 'boring' afternoon. I'd been _made_ that way. Made to agitate, made to never feel entirely at ease. How was that my fault? It was just a particular that the Almighty chose to impart upon me, just as She saw fit to bestow you with that ever eternal warmth and incomprehensible patience._

_And it was those particulars which held greater weight to you than the feelings we held in our hearts. The heavy press of Heaven's enormous burden upon your shoulders was all that you allowed yourself to feel. All that you permitted yourself to feel. Still. To this_ very_ day._

_So no, angel. You don't get to call me nice. You don't get to just find a reason to say no to me and then remind me that no matter how close I get I will always be too far away. Too far away for you. Too fast. Too much never-quite-right. Always just out of reach of reconciliation._

You knew what you were doing when you said that. How could you not? We have long memories. I don't forget. You don't forget. It's precisely why we can injure each other so exquisitely. I know every chink in your armour and you mine. And you would think a demon would be more the likely the utilize this to its advantage.

_But no. Not where you're concerned. You're too good, far too good for the likes of a world such as this. A spirit which held the shine, the worth, the beauty of an incandescent pearl. One that might never have come however from a grain of grit but from the most beautiful, holy and compassionate corner of God's will. It was uniquely and explicitly, a gift that was yours. What set you apart. What I could_ see_ had set you apart._

Crowley might have made his attempts to move Aziraphale's way of thinking, to encourage him towards some manner of independent thought (he was certainly clever enough and independent enough to formulate some genuine gems of his own making) but he would never go so far as to truly Tempt the angel. He had respect enough to always be honest with Aziraphale. But truly, the idea of playing any sort of game with perhaps the singularly one true and genuine angel of Heaven, was tasteless even so far as he was concerned. And this from a demon who had been known to swerve towards the oft errant hedgehog which had the misfortune to wander onto the road when he had been out driving about.

It was not the demon who saw fit to play his games of malice. But the angel. Proving once more, as Crowley had long suspected, that it was the forces of Heaven, rather than Hell, that could twist the blade harder and deeper than any of the fell forces of Hell were ever capable.

_You sat in my car, looked at me with those eyes and you said 'You go too fast for me, Crowley'._

_I _knew_ what it meant. Between the lines. It meant I can't go where you want us to go. Because.' Because, because, be-fucking-cause..._

_Because you are right handed. Because I am ambidextrous. Because you like classical composers and I like twentieth century rock and roll. You are above and I am below. You are an angel and I am a demon. No matter how far and how hard I might stretch my hand, no matter what effort I might go to, you will always be just out of my reach._

_I fell and for that alone I am unforgivable._

And that hurt. That hurt a whole lot more than damnation ever did. To not be able to be with the person you had been smitten with, from the moment they held their wing out over your head to keep you out of the rain and told you ever so earnestly that they had given away a holy relic because a pair of humans had been 'having a bad day'. Had done something simply because he had felt that it was _the right thing to do. _Regardless of what Heaven might have otherwise directed. Aziraphale was his own person, who drew conclusions based on his own moral compass and whom had demonstrated, over the thousands of years, a willingness and a capacity to be _swayed._

That angel. That stupid, stupid angel with his stupid kind eyes and his stupid cruel and stubborn consternations. His being 'wedded' corporeal body and ethereal soul to a Heaven that had never deserved him. Not ever. Not the once.

Nice, you see, was a four letter word. Four letter words were traditionally offensive. Love was a four letter word and it was, in Crowley's opinion, the most offensive word of all.

Nice, it seemed, and Love, would never be set too far apart in his mind. One four letter word reminded him so unequivocally of the other four letter word that he was destined to never obtain. And the reminder of this was just as painful and as unneeded as was the rubbing of vinegar into a still bleeding wound. It hurt like hell. And you were most definitely asking for a fucking punch in the nose for your efforts.

_So, don't bring it up. Let it alone. Transgress your genuine angelic ignorance past the point of just delivering your sweet platitudes for want of what you have just witnessed and think, foolish principality. Think in how those that have transgressed might think and connect the dots so as to see how something so innocuous in your eyes, might be so destructive in mine._

_And don't bother with acting all surprised when I shove you through a wall for it._

* * *

Crowley had work first thing in the morning. But with such thoughts having turned the well trekked halls of his mind into their regular stomping ground, sleep was a long ways off.

More the pity for his house plants. Which had never looked the more vibrant, luscious and verdant. Nor the more petrified.

Crowley you see, had not been in a good mood the past two months.

And he was a demon who on his happiest of days, was capable still of reducing even the hardiest of Indian Banyan's to a mess of quivering leaves in the corner.

You might not have thought the squeaking of mattress springs to have roused such immeasurable terror but it was this sound that the metaphorical ears of the houseplants had grown particularly attuned to. For it was the sound which preceded an ever more sleep deprived, frustrated and gnarly Anthony J. Crowley stomping the flat in a restless fit, slogging back more and more itinerant mouthfuls of top shelf and peering, bleary eyed and calculating at each and every leaf adorning his plants; searching for just any excuse to hurl one of them out by the roots and straight off to the kitchen for execution.

There could never be found, in all the known corners of the world, more complete and incomparable supporters of Crowley and Aziraphale sorting out their mess than the demons persecuted house plants. They wished most ardently for it, in fact and waited and prayed in fervent hope for the pair of star crossed twits to drift back to one another's orbit, confess their love and ride off into the nebula of Alpha Centauri together with a picnic hamper and enough alcohol to cripple the _An tSeirbh__is Chabhlaigh._

The sooner the better, they thought. In that minimalistic sort of way in which house plants could formulate a thought. If they could walk as well, they might very well have described the experience of living under the same roof as Crowley as tiptoeing on eggshells most days.

For the third time that hour, the mattress squeaked. A verdant hum echoed about the flat, shortly thereafter followed by a breeze so strong it near about whipped the expensive paintings from their hooks upon the wall.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N: **I hope everyone had a very lovely, and very safe holiday season! Mine was a quiet, but much enjoyed family affair; which is perfect, as I'm not what you would call a particularly Christmasy/Holiday person. At least not this year. Maybe next year I'll get back into the swing of things :)

If you enjoyed, please feel free to leave a review, or a follow. Or a favourite. If you did not enjoy, or see room for improvement, feel free to concrit. I promise, I do not bite. And it honestly makes me very happy to hear people's thoughts on the story, so please feel free to speak up, if you have any thoughts!

See you in the next update, and, with all my usual infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	20. Chapter 20

**DISCLAIMER:** You guys know why I still persist with writing these things? Because I am an archaic fanfiction dinosaur, who apparently missed the whole 'Pottergate' saga, and still believed that disclaimers were required at the beginning of every story. And now they're sort of just... force of habit. Seriously though; think I'm going to drop them, because apparently there's no longer a risk of being sued for not including these things. I always figured it was obvious, but there you go! Anway, don't own Good Omens nor its' characters.

**A/N: **As always, cheers to you guys who are following the story, reading and favouriting! It's always so appreciated and I really mean that!

Anyway, hope you that you all enjoy, and I'll see you at the end of the chapter for a few quick words!

**~X~**

* * *

_**~Tuesday, April 9th - 2019~**_

**_The Grange Estate Nursing Home_**

_**Nine months to the Apex...**_

The following day, nursing a rather unfamiliar champagne based hangover, Alice made good her self-made promise of the earlier evening and bestowed a rather the firm smack to behind the ear of one Anthony J. Crowley.

She'd had to wait until their 9:00am break to do so and she'd almost gone back on it, such was the way that 'Anthony' was dragging his feet through the first two hours of his shift. He'd been forced to stay back late the previous evening, she'd been told and he was clearly far from a happy camper. Though she couldn't see his eyes, his face had a hangdog look about it; hardly detracting from his handsomeness but enough so that she could tell that he was tired and put out. And sad.

It had only been two months, but they had worked the majority of those two months in shared shifts and she felt she had gotten to know a little of his expressions by now. Usually when he was grumpy or annoyed, he would jut his lower lip out a bit and his voice would get all the more plummy; as though he were projecting his accent up over the bottom row of his teeth. That day there was none of that terseness. He just sort of 'hmmed' and 'Oh yes'd' his way through the shift; performing his duties with quite as much attention to detail as ever but a little more the distant than what might be considered the norm.

Perhaps it was a good thing he had been tasked predominantly with kitchen duty for the remainder of the day, Alice had thought. Though he was hardly being rude, acting distant could be just as detrimental so far as palliative care went and none of their charges would benefit from his being distracted. At least the carting of boxes and putting together of meals required minimal animation.

Alice chose her time to strike well. Following the residents breakfast, she and 'Anthony' put some dirty linen in to wash and then drifted on down to the break room for a cuppa. Another two members of staff kept an eye on things whilst the two early starters were permitted to duck on out for a break.

Crowley immediately made for his familial roost on top of the decorative bench, lighting up a cigarette and alternating between puffing and sipping from his coffee. At some stage he took out his phone and started flicking through the gallery; looking at pictures of Aziraphale. Knowing it wasn't going to be helping matters but rather not caring at this stage what was considered to be helpful or not.

Seeing him the previous night had been hard. The whole exchange had been difficult and sad and troubling.

But it had been wonderful too. Wonderful to be close to him again. To feel that warmth. To see that smile.

He loved the pictures with Aziraphale smiling. Didn't do it justice, though. Not the same as being there. Seeing it. Feeling the light of it directed right on through you, nestling into you.

The cuff just about knocked his glasses clear off of his face and he flung a hand up over them at the last moment, shoving them back up close to his eyes.

"Get on the phone and call your mister right now, you stubborn git!" Alice was snapping, circling back round to plonk herself onto her customary perch by the back door and lighting up her own cigarette. She looked about as angry as a cat what had been yanked out of a sack by its tail; claws ready to lash to whatever bare arm might have come close.

"Ah, so it was _you_." Crowley said, straightening his glasses and pressing the button on the side of the phone to put the screen to sleep. He hadn't much of a doubt as to who it was that Aziraphale had been in contact with (he'd all but fessed up the previous night anyhow) but he was wondering still how long Alice was planning to keep quiet about the matter. She'd gone the entire morning without saying boo, which wasn't like her at all. Clearly, she had been waiting for the perfect moment in which to add her two cents worth.

"Yeah it was me. You know, you are the absolute _worst_." She jabbed her cigarette at him, her hazel eyes narrowed with genuine irritation. Yep. Most definitely an expression of one whom had been swayed over to the side of Aziraphale simply by virtue of having been caught directly in the tractor pull of the angel's glowing personality. "Your Alex is like the sweetest, most _adorable_ guy in the world and he's worrying himself sick over you, so get on the phone right now and sort your shit out!"

"Look, I'm sorry you got dragged into all this because it really _isn't your business_." Crowley made a point of firmly emphasizing those last few words, in a voice he felt conveyed just enough danger so as to shut the remainder of the conversation down.

It might have worked with the likes of certain, more tremulous person's who were not in fact Alice. Alice who had grown up with a father who hurled fists instead of indecorously barbed phrases replete with delicate emphasis. Anthony J. Crowley, so far as she was concerned, posed about as much risk to her as a tangerine with the peel off.

"Oh I think it's _very much_ my business when one of my friends is getting hurt."

"Who said we were friends?" Crowley said, meaning to be a little nasty. Alice picked up a small pebble from close by and pegged it into his leg, hard enough to make it sting.

"I meant Alex, you sour little fruit!"

Crowley pulled a face, rubbing at the spot on his calf in which the pebble had struck him. "You only met Alex last night; what you're already friends?!"

Why he expressed disbelief with such a concept he wasn't quite sure. Aziraphale was the type who would make friends with most anyone, so long as they weren't a demon from hell.

He had even once permitted the strange, unmedicated and very much unwashed gentleman who lived in the park and who chased people proclaiming himself to be 'King of the Salamanders' to refer to him as a friend one time. Something with which Crowley had taken spectacular offense, given it had taken him over six thousand years (time of which he dedicated wholesomely to the act of bathing, self-medicating and not chasing people insisting that they recognize his sovereignty over a collective genus of cold blooded reptile) to receive the same recognition.

Should it really be so strange that in one night he had gone and gotten chummy with one of Crowley's work colleagues? Give it a week and they'd probably be off to the farmer's market together, squeezing cantaloupe and pulling faces at the man with gingivitis handing out cheese samples.

"I was friends with him from the moment I sat down! He_ paid_ for dinner, _he pulled my seat out for me_! He walked me to the taxi, _paid_ for it and _held open the door while I got in_! He didn't even look up my skirt, and I can pretty much guarantee I was enough in the bag that he would have gotten a good look without invitation!" She ignored the face which Crowley was pulling, likely effaced purely to have some fun at her expense. "He gave me a hug! It was like… the _best_ hug I've ever had! He's got the cutest… he's just the cutest…" She looked quite as though she were about to explode, such was the inability of her brain to reconcile the irrepressible charm and sweet rancour that was one Aziraphale. Crowley reminded himself that he'd had quite a bit more experience dealing with the pure unfiltered presence of the angel than most. Aziraphale could be a rather large overdose of the feel goods to those who had no tolerance for it. "Do you know what I wouldn't give for a man who would do all those things for me? A man who didn't expect you to put out afterwards?"

"Well, you're in luck so far as Azira-..._Alex_ is concerned." Crowley muttered, correcting himself at the last moment. From the sounds of things, Aziraphale had invited Alice out to dinner somewhere to get the scoop as to what had been going on.

Crowley had to admit that this in itself was every bit quite of what he expected of the angel. He was hardly the type to just call someone up or message them and simply demand information in exchange for nothing. The guilt alone would be enough to drive him to any decadent avenue of expense, just so as he felt good and certain that he had repaid whatever debt he felt himself to have accrued in making such a request.

"I'm telling you now, if you don't sort this mess out, I'll have a sex change and bloody well marry him myself!" Alice was saying, shaking her cigarette with such vigour that the entire burning ash just about flew out from the tip. Crowley, obviously unthreatened by the very implausible notion of Aziraphale setting up domestic bliss with a human, shrugged and took another drag from his own fag.

"Fine, marry him. Have fun with that. He'd probably say yes just to make you happy." He couldn't help but smile at this one. He could just see it now; Aziraphale standing at the front of a church somewhere, eyes bugging from his head as Alice swept down the isle in a fluffy, mutton sleeve dress, wondering just how in the Hell he'd managed to land himself in this fine mess and likely banking on Crowley to come hotfooting in the back door with some last minute plan to remedy the situation. He probably wouldn't even voice a hint of a protest if that intervention were to come in the form of another redirected bomb, even if it were to take out the attending priest, assorted guests, altar boys and the like.

Alice took the slight smile what had formed on Crowley's face as some manner of invitation to get a bit more sentimental with the whole thing. She climbed up off of the stoop, dusted a hand over her rear to clear the dust and grime from her uniform and went and perched on the bench proper. She twisted her arm about to smack her palm to Crowley's calf.

"Listen, in all seriousness I know it isn't any of my business but… you know, life's short." She said, to which the demon gave an ironic little 'Hmph' as he took another drag from his smoke. "And it's hard to find someone you really care about. Someone who really cares about you. I've tried. I'm thirty-seven and I'm _still_ trying. So when you find someone that you share all that stuff with, that real genuine awesome connection, you really gotta hold onto it, boyo. Who knows what could happen tomorrow? He might get hit by a car."

Crowley sat up a bit straighter at this one. Knowing Aziraphale, it was a miracle in and of itself that such a thing _hadn't_ yet come to pass. He was notoriously dreadful at looking both ways before crossing the street. And he must of course have been more distracted than usual. Crowley was often the one who prevented such things from happening. The dopey angel had almost gotten himself skittled by a garbage truck once. A _garbage truck_. Wasn't hard to hear one of those coming, for... someone's sake.

"Just… think about it, yeah mate?" Alice rested her aching temple against her fist; giving Crowley a smile which she could only hope in some way conveyed her bizarre feelings of urgency concerning the matter. "He loves you _so much_. And you love him. Whatever else is going in, isn't that the most important thing? Doesn't that see out all the other bullshit?"

_All the other bullshit..._

It was quite a bit of bullshit to be getting on with, Crowley thought. It was complicated, far more than this well meaning young human could possibly get their head around...

But Crowley wasn't doing such a good job of getting his head around it either.

Two months, so many weeks and he hadn't yet an answer as to how any of this was supposed to work. _If_ it was supposed to work.

He was shutting Aziraphale out and to what end? What good was it ultimately accomplishing? Singularly they might very well have been clever creatures apiece but together they were most often able to put that mental prowess to greater effect and muddle on through whatever it was required the working out.

_Yes_, it was complicated._ Yes_ it was frightening. And_ yes_, Aziraphale was the one who needed to pull his socks up and push himself that bit further. To take that step and break on out of whatever fences corralled his feelings and desires.

But Aziraphale _wanted_ to talk. He _wanted_ to try and to work through it all.

Crowley had known Aziraphale to have been cruel in the past. To have said cruel things. But it was he what was being cruel now. He who was pushing Aziraphale to a desperate place, who was hurting him, denying him and playing some awful game at his expense.

It was confusing. It was complicated. But there was one thing which _wasn't_.

They loved one another.

Not having said it was by no means negating the truth of it. Crowley knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved Aziraphale; a love which he had never experienced for any other being in this world or any of the others. And he knew that Aziraphale loved him; loved him by a means which transcended the boundaries of what was considered a natural angelic love, pertained for all living things. It was a love what was different, more fulsome, deeper and innately more _greedy_ and _wanting_. It was not an angelic love but _Aziraphale's_ and this was separate from that which was so incontestably inherent of his celestial nature.

Nothing was more the true, more the concrete, more uncomplicated than this. Everything else was just... technicalities.

They could help one another through it. Crowley need not abandon Aziraphale to this. This journey which was likely the more terrifying than any on which the angel had ever had reason to embark.

Crowley could _explain_ it, at the very least. Explain his thoughts, his fears, his feelings on the matter. So that Aziraphale could reach some peace with this much and make an informed decision as to how he wished to proceed once in possession of the knowledge. This was fair. And Crowley rather felt he had been very unfair to someone he cared for deeply. Who deserved indisputably better.

He gave a sigh, which was but a winsome breath what underpinned the assiduous nature of his busy thoughts and took another long draw from his cigarette. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll… I'll give him a call after I finish my shift."

He thought this was quite enough of a concession to get him off of the hook, but Alice surprised him once more in all but shoving her finger through his hip; jabbing at where the corner of his phone was poking out from his pocket.

"No you never. You were looking at pictures of him when I came out here. Don't be so stubborn and call him. Let him know you wanna talk. Imagine him home all day feeling like shit just waiting to hear from you. Don't be so bloody cruel."

"All right, all right. I'll call him now. _Jesus._" Crowley winced slightly at the word, tugging the phone out from his pocket and tapping on the screen to unlock it. "You are some next level emotional manipulator you are."

"I'm a woman. We're good for that." She grinned, climbing up off of the bench and pinching her fingers to Crowley's cheek, which earned her an annoyed '_gerroff'_ in response. "Ooh that's such a relief. And not just because I want you to bring Alex along to every staff do we have from here on out."

"You just want him for more hugs." Crowley said, opening up his contacts and hovering his thumb over Aziraphale's name. "Or to pay for dinner, more like."

"It's mainly the hugs. The lobster and expensive champagne wasn't a bad touch either." Crowley flinched as he received yet another punch to the arm. "He buys you _champagne!_! You are seriously _such_ a bastard! I mean the shit I would put up with in exchange for a champagne supper. I seriously don't know what is_ wrong_ with you!"

"I'd go hoarse if I attempted to list the ways." Crowley said, flapping his fingers towards the door to indicate that he wanted some privacy with which to make the call. Alice gave a thumbs up, ground out her cigarette and deposited the butt into the large glass coffee container they kept nearby for this very purpose. Feeling unusually nervous himself, Crowley bum lit another smoke for himself, grinding out the remaining nub of the first before then drawing deeply upon the filter of the second.

He hit Aziraphale's name on screen and put the phone to his ear. His fingers trembled a little as he brought the cigarette back up to his mouth. He was calling the shop, thinking this was more the likely the phone which Aziraphale was going to answer.

When the call rang out, he tried the mobile and was a little annoyed for it to go to message bank. Hopefully it was nothing. Aziraphale likely ducking out for breakfast or some such nonsense and leaving the mobile on his desk, as was his airheaded norm.

Aziraphale's message bank was ever so charming though and it did actually bring a smile to Crowley's lips to hear it.

_"Hello." _(That same overly warm and virtuous tone as ever)._ "Ever so sorry I'm not available to take your call. I imagine that this is Crowley, as you are the only one who has the number for this mobile device and the only one whom I could ever imagine might ever contact me as such. Do leave a message at the tone, my dear and I shall strive forthwith to return your call at the earliest possible convenience. If it is however an emergency, or if there is a change of plans per some dinner arrangements we might have made, please do not hesitate to contact me at the shop. Pip-pip."_

Pip-pip? Crowley never could quite abstain from rolling his eyes at this one. Sometimes he suspected that Aziraphale enjoyed going through life being a walking, talking embodiment of every known old-fashioned English stereotype what might have existed pre the twentieth century. It was a wonder he didn't go about with a monocle, a cane and a snuff box; pinching a good helping on busy street corners and sneezing bodaciously into the faces of otherwise innocent passers-by, whilst exclaiming _'Pon my word!_' to no one in particular.

The beep sounded on the phone and Crowley yanked himself out of his, as always, much distracting thoughts and tried to string together a message which might have sounded just the slightest bit more in control than what it was he was currently feeling.

"Yeah, um... hi." Well, off to a great start already. "Hope everything's ok. You know... after all that with... that lot, yesterday." He took a deep breath. Told himself to stop playing silly buggers. "Look, I uh... I just wanted to say, I'm sorry about... freezing you out these past couple of months. I haven't dealt with any of this at all well, and... I'm ready to uh, to talk. If_ you_ are. I mean, I can understand if you don't want to but uh... if you do, well... I might pop by the bookshop after my shift, if that's okay. I mean, let me know if it's not. Just give me a call. Send me a message. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume that means it's okay to swing by. I'll bring dinner if you like, whatever." This was dragging out, as was what remained of Crowley's break, so he decided to cut it short. By doing something he thought to be very brave on his part. "I've got to get back to work but hopefully I'll see you tonight. Be well. ...love you."

He hung up quickly, pressed the phone against his forehead and prayed to whatever it was that disenchanted demons prayed to these days that it hadn't been too much. It was what he had been feeling, nothing surer, but he hoped it wasn't about to go and send Aziraphale into a tailspin.

Little did Crowley realize however, that it was not Aziraphale whom was about to be knocked for six but he himself what was about to be caught entirely off guard.

* * *

Crowley had been right about two things. Aziraphale had in fact left his mobile plugged in to the charger on his study desk. And he _had_ ducked out. Just not for breakfast.

At the time of Crowley's call, Aziraphale was in fact walking through the front doors of the Grange Estate Nursing home. He had been on a bus for the better part of the morning. And, prior to the dawn breaking of that particular morning, Aziraphale had been much busier than an angel had any right to be during hours of which he might have much preferred to be conducting his sleeping.

Sleep had proven quite impossible however, given what had transpired between himself and Crowley. Such were the strength of his feelings concerning said exchange, that he hadn't even wasted time on the mere thought of sleep; never mind the attempting of it. He had instead put his restless mind and body to work on far the more productive and important matters.

He was tired, _yes_. But tired in ways of which extended far beyond that of his physical body; one which did not in fact require sleep but still insisted on the exchange rate regardless.

Aziraphale was weary in ways what didn't even compare. He was heartbroken and fed up and furious with himself and with Heaven for the role it continued to play in what was to be this, the rest of his life.

He missed Crowley. He missed him and he loved him and he wanted to move forwards with him into whatever it was what might be awaiting them. He wanted to take that first step. To fight through these ridiculous, cruel constraints Heaven had instilled within him.

It was possible. He had done it with the apple, after all. Eating was no different, not when it came down to it.

It was simply a means of persistence.

Aziraphale had been feeling more than a little desperate the previous evening. After he had cleaned up the mess he had made and picked up every stray sliver of glass he could find, a thought came to him. It wasn't a nice thought, hardly at all an angelic one. But appropriately enough, given the context, one of which Aziraphale considered without any of those common constraints otherwise factoring in. He was desperate after all and desperate times as they say abide the conducting of ever the more desperate measures.

Less than a half hour after Crowley had left, Aziraphale found himself on the computer. He was researching the Grange Estate Nursing home. In particular, their staffing policy. Having done so, the once angel of the Eastern Gate, started doing something for which perhaps Crowley himself might have chastised him; expending a great deal of magical energy in the doling out of self-indulgent miracles left right and centre.

The first little spell he weaved was in tapping into the staff roster for the Grange Estate nursing home for the following day. With a nudge of magical energy, he directed the spreadsheet out from his own printer and scanned the listing of names. Crowley was on the early shift, commencing at 7:00am. Aziraphale searched then for another name, one who was due to start at 9:00am.

He took that name and whirled it around in his head. Created another miracle. A_ terrible_ one. One he might very well have once conducted at the behest of Crowley, in keeping with their once established 'Arrangement'.

Aziraphale was creating a stomach bug.

He was creating a stomach bug and then sinking that stomach bug into the body of the Grange Estate's rostered cook. He was putting a great deal of virulent energy into this particular bug; prompting it to come on hard and fast and to last no less than twenty-four hours. It would come with a very great deal of vomiting, uncontrollable diarrhoea, stomach cramps and fever and would result, much to his later consternation, in the affected cook having to be taken into the emergency department by his equally as repulsed wife. Aziraphale had been taking no chances in wanting this particular gentlemen out of the way.

The cooks who prepared the meals for the residents of the Grange Estate, Aziraphale had discovered, were not in fact hired directly by the estate itself. They were outsourced from another company; whose pool of cooks were available to work most anywhere what was required.

It was very on board, of course; with extensive background checks, proof of experience, qualifications and the like. Exempting one individual, of which all these aforementioned factors were entirely fabricated and who was claiming but a wealth of experience in an area that the actual creature in question was notoriously substandard regards; exempting perhaps where the making of a delicious sandwich was otherwise concerned.

It would seem that Alexander Fell, in addition to running a Rare Bookstore, spent some hours moonlighting as a sous chef.

No one at the hiring agency would contest it, either. So far as they were concerned, Alexander Fell had been on the books for many years and came highly recommended with incontestable customer satisfaction. Aziraphale had been required to fiddle about with a few memories of selective individuals here and there in order to sell this untruth; something which he was historically and vocally not on board with, but something he now gave very little hoots about. _Desperate times._

Alexander Fell, it further transpired, was the only cook available to work on short notice. He took the call himself, first thing in the morning. Advised that he was more than happy to close up shop for the day and to pop on by to work the five hour shift at the Grange Estate Nursing Home. _No, it wouldn't be a bother at all. Happy to help out! Shall be on my way in two shakes of a jolly lambs tail!_

He first made Crowley a sandwich, remembering the demon's growling stomach from the night before and thinking it would serve as something of a peace offering. He had a sneaking suspicion that Crowley was just as likely to throw the sandwich back in his face as he was to actually accept it, but progress was never made in taking the easy way out. Something Aziraphale was fast learning, perhaps six thousand or so years later to the party then he really ought to have been.

The sandwich further served as a symbolic gesture. Crowley didn't need to eat, after all. But the care and effort what went into personally preparing something was a fact that the demon never took for granted and Aziraphale hoped would further strengthen the point that he was going to be making.

He had spent most of the night wording himself up; writing things down, reading them out and then scratching out, scribbling in and rearranging what might be better phrased and whatnot. He had forgotten quite nearly all of it come the morning and none of the crumpled up notes littered about him on the floor were of any use. It was much like trying to fit together a jigsaw puzzle, only to find that the pieces of two other entirely separate jigsaws had been thrown into the mix. He decided in the end that it was much more meaningful to simply speak from the heart; no matter how much grief his angelic thumbscrews wrought him in the process.

Aziraphale wrapped up the pastrami, cheese and pickle sandwich ever so carefully, placing it then in a sealed Tupperware container. He set it in his lap throughout his early morning bus trip; trying his best to focus on the days newspaper but finding himself reading the same sentence over and over again. He was much too anxious to successfully distract himself. An article about an unexplained violent outbreak in some isolated village in Italy caught his eye but then it too faded out of importance as other more strenuous thoughts marched their way back in to claim monopoly of his attention.

He gave up eventually, leaving the paper on the seat beside him and simply staring out the window; feet jittering across the floor as if to deter a crowd of ants from otherwise gathering by his shoes.

It was a long drive by car and longer still by bus, but Aziraphale did in fact arrive right on 8:50am. He wasn't sure whether he was relieved to spot Crowley's Bentley parked in the staff carpark or if the sight of it only worsened his already considerable nerves. He took a deep breath in of the cool morning air; let it fill his lungs fully before staggering it out. His heart still took to racing like a frightened rabbits, but there was simply nothing for it but to push forward.

He attempted to soothe himself with the thought that by tonight, all this terrible mess would be behind them. Goodness knows what shape that prospective 'tonight' otherwise took but it wouldn't do to think on it too much, or he'd never get his shaking body through the door.

By the time Crowley was grinding out his second cigarette, Aziraphale was stepping in through the automatic doors of the Grange Estate Nursing home reception. There was a young woman installed behind the front desk, bearing the countenance of one whom was already far the more bored with life than someone in their mid-twenties really had any right to be.

Her eyes widened curiously at Aziraphale as he entered and she sat up straight in her seat as though the will to live had been suddenly pumped into her by IV drip.

"Good morning, my dear." Aziraphale said, with ever the same warm smile he trotted out like a prized show dog. He passed a manila folder over the desk, where the receptionist, eyes still locked on him purposefully, tugged it towards her by use of perfectly rounded, likely pressed on boysenberry nails. "I am filling in for the cook here today, who I understand is feeling a little under the weather."

The receptionist's brows rose up so as to form near perfect umbrellas above her eyes. _If the hair hadn't been enough of a giveaway, the tell-tale proper manner of speech simply sold it._

"I _knew_ it! When the agency called back, I thought they said they were sending out an Alexander Fell! Then I just second guessed myself. Thought my ear had heard it wrong, what with Anthony's waffling on every five minutes-" She caught herself, pressing her fingertips to her lips as though to force whatever words were about to come spilling out back in. After mustering some self-control, she reached one of those hands across the high rise of the desk and offered it to Aziraphale. "Sorry, darl. I'm Carrol." She peered back over the top of her desk, adjusting her lower end designer glasses and tilting her head to the side in that way a lot of women seemed to be adopting when it came to Aziraphale lately. "You... you're Anthony's..._ partner_, right?"

Aziraphale did his very best to keep the stiffness out of his smile. He had gone into this knowing full well that this was the impression what Crowley had left his work colleagues with. And it was an impression Aziraphale would do his utmost to sustain. Further proof that he was, of course, not the least ashamed of Crowley. Or of their relationship.

"I suppose I must be." He said, straightening out his lapels and hitching the traitorous corners of his lips up into the apples of his cheeks. Carrol gave another sympathetic cock of her head, smiling in such a way it made Aziraphale wonder as to whether Crowley had been telling tales about him having some terminal disease. She then plucked up the manila folder, making her way out from behind the desk on heels which made an almost racheting sound as she went.

"Well... not sure how you managed it, but rest assured I'm in your corner. Come on, I'll take you through." She zippered out a card from a clip on her belt and passed it over the security sensor leading into the complex proper. The double glass doors behind her rolled open and she gestured for Aziraphale to follow her inside. "Anthony's on kitchen duty today, so all the better, huh? Honestly, can I just say that man has been a _real_ god send. We were all so sorry to hear about the problems the two of you have been having. If you don't mind my saying so."

"Oh, so he's been talking about our... disagreement then. Wonderful." Aziraphale murmured, not paying quite as much attention to the young lady as he might otherwise have done. He was in through the doors now and getting closer by the moment to doing that which he had been setting himself up all night to get done. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears like the wash of the distant sea.

"You'd be so proud of him. All the old girls absolutely love him." Carrol turned, mid-swish down the hall and said in a sort of dramatic offside. "_Most of the young ones too, actually._ You'd best hold on to him tight or someone'll yank him right on out from under you!"

This one Aziraphale did catch. "Under me?" He blustered, face reddening as an image, quite unprecedented shot through his brain and just about rendered his legs useless on the spot.

"- they were bringing the groceries in, so I wouldn't be surprised if we round up on him-" Carrol clapped her hands together sharply. "Ha. There he is."

Aziraphale glanced off to the left where Carrol was pointing. Crowley had emerged from a doorway which opened up into what was clearly a generous kitchen area, calling out over his shoulder to someone as he went. Aziraphale couldn't make out whatever it was he might have been saying; the rush of blood in his ears had suddenly become much too loud and drowned out most everything in its wake.

"Oi!" Carrol's voice was apparently just high pitched enough to cut through it. She made a very curt, imperial gesture towards Crowley who turned, spotted Aziraphale at her back and froze in place as though roots had sprouted from the soles of his shoes. "Anthony! You'll never guess who's filling in for Paul today!"

Aziraphale somehow managed to keep on smiling through the panic which roiled about through every chamber of his body. Crowley hadn't yet moved from by the doorway, though his bottom lip was hanging open in a way what made him look, at best, a little to the side of simple. Carrol, unaware of, or perhaps uncaring concerns the tightening cord of tension forming between the two men shaped creatures, gave a perky clap of her hands as though everything were right with the world and she were directly responsible for having implemented it.

"Well, I need to be getting back to the front desk." She shook a finger over her shoulder at Crowley as she swished off, skirt chasing about her ankles like a loyal pet. "Don't you go sneaking off for a quickie in one of the supply closets when you're still on the clock."

"I'll leave it 'til my scheduled break, how's that?" Crowley managed to sputter; with all the dignity otherwise espoused by a garden a hose when it has been sitting unused in the backyard for a while. Satisfied that libidinous activity was not on the cards, Carrol flashed an ok sign in the air above her head before click-clacking her way around the corner.

Aziraphale and Crowley were left staring at one another; neither entirely certain as to how to proceed now that they were face to face. Crowley, in spite of having just called Aziraphale and requesting that they meet up to talk, felt strangely annoyed with being rounded up on in his workplace. He hadn't an opportunity yet to prepare himself.

His breath still stank of the cigarettes he'd been smoking. He'd forgotten to put cologne on before coming to work. It was, at least in his mind, the equivalent of someone rocking up to your house uninvited and you still had conditioner in your hair.

Crowley _detested_ being caught off guard. It was one of those things what simply put him in a bad mood right off the cuff. And so, instead of saying all those lovely things he had been meaning to say, he did something very typically Crowley-ish and indulged that otherwise petty annoyance.

"What the Heaven are _you_ doing here?" He snapped, trying in a not so very subtle way to glance over his work uniform for any stains or smears of urine, faeces or vomit present. His hair was probably a mess. He had no gum. _Why didn't he just starting keeping gum in his fucking pockets?!_

Strangely enough, Crowley's temper merely instilled a sense of calm in Aziraphale. He was used to the demon's mood swings after six thousand years of dealing with them and it was a constant that he was quite practiced at rolling with.

"Bringing you lunch, for one. I made you a sandwich." He handed the plastic container to Crowley who stared at it as though Aziraphale had handed him something so patently ludicrous as a bucket of sloth droppings.

"They _do_ feed me here, you know. I hardly needed you to bring me a bloody sandwich." He nonetheless took the plastic container, never so proud as to turn down food when offered. He'd seen the likes of far too many starving children throughout the ages to ever morally abide wastage. And it had been, he begrudgingly acknowledged, a kind thought.

"Well you were starving yesterday, excuse me for noticing. You're _welcome_ by the way. I'm also -"

Aziraphale was interrupted by the somewhat predictable and fortuitous timing of the woman he surmised to be the site manager. He name badge read 'Rita' and she was carrying a bundle of white clothing, distinctly as crinkly as Crowley's had appeared on his very first day of work.

"You must be Alex, I presume?"

"Indeed I am." Aziraphale replied, taking the proffered bundle of clothing with a munificent smile what seemed to soften even the hard edge shellac layered upon the borders of Rita's heart. Trying her utmost to keep from being charmed, she jerked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the interior office.

"Got some paperwork for you to sign before you get started but first things first. Anthony." She snapped her fingers at the demon in such an authoritarian manner that it made Aziraphale chuckle to himself. No pushover, it would seem. "He's your partner, so I hear. Show him where he can get changed, where the break room is and all that, while I get things organized."

Crowley had clearly not put two and two together yet. He continued to stare at the bundle of clothing in Aziraphale's hands as though wondering just why on earth he had been passed the blessed things for.

"Why?"

"Now, please" Rita said, her tone stating in no uncertain terms that she would bust Crowley's spine over her knee like an uncooked noodle just as soon as look at him. She headed back towards the office, whilst Aziraphale gave Crowley a small, supportive smile to which he received a wholly dumbfounded look in return. Aziraphale fancied he hadn't witnessed such shock adorn the demon's features since that time of their first meeting upon the wall of the Garden of Eden.

"You applied to work here? _Seriously?_"

"I'm filling in for the cook." Aziraphale said, effacing a self-important tone for whatever the reason as he picked at one of the crunchy corners of the uniform. Crowley's brows had axed in so low over his eyes that they had all but disappeared behind the lenses of his glasses.

"_... You can't cook!_"

"Technicalities, if anything." Aziraphale permitted just a hint of the frustration he had been battling throughout the long night to creep out and spread through the lines of his face. "Well, I couldn't see any other way to get you to talk to me."

"_Wuh-wha..._?" Crowley was quite obviously blindsided; gaping like a fish that had just been hurled from the water and tossed haphazardly onto the docks. He wasn't sure what to think. He wasn't sure in fact _when_ he might be able to think. "Wh-why the cook of all people? How did you even manage to _do_ that? What happened to the cook?" His eyes widened to such a startling degree that they could be clearly glimpsed from behind his glasses. "Did you_ kill_ the cook?"

His tone was strangely gleeful; as though hoping that Aziraphale had in fact committed some uncharacteristic act of carnage by braining the cook over the head with a thick enough book and rolling his expired body up in a Persian rug.

"No I _didn't_ kill the cook!" Aziraphale said, with the look of someone who might have in fact gotten away with murder if not for their own guilt spectacularly dropping them in it. "Of course not. ... I just arranged for a little... stomach bug..."

"You what?"

"A stomach bug!" Aziraphale groaned, more the guilt ridden for the fact that Crowley was now grinning in that ever so beautiful way he was prone to doing when skulduggery was afoot. It meant, of course, that the demon in him was very, very pleased for something the unpleasant which had occurred, perhaps even more so on account of it being the angel who had in fact perpetrated said nefarious act. "Oh, do wipe that smug smirk off of your face. It wasn't as though I gave him diphtheria. He'll recover in a day or so. I just needed an in, was all."

"Oh, that is a special level of _messed up_. Real next level." Crowley chuckled happily, a fact which was clearly grinding on Aziraphale's nerves. "Miracling a stomach bug into the belly of an innocent man and quintessentially negating the plight of the elderly so as to meet your own needs. Sort of... demony, really. Not sure whether to be impressed or not..." He tilted his head curiously, counting out the moments mentally before then asking: "You check your messages on your way here?"

Aziraphale continued to look all the more guilt stricken by the moment; which was something of a prodigious feat. His was a feeling of shame fast approaching Olympian level standards, if in fact marinating in guilt was a considered to be a competitive sport. It might have been him and a collective spattering of Catholics neck and neck all the way to the finish line. Aziraphale might well have had them beat, quite simply as a result of his never being able to absolve himself through any acts of confession he had ever attempted.

"Left the phone on the charger again..." He mumbled, to which Crowley rolled his eyes (unseen by Aziraphale but worth doing all the same) and puffed air towards the ceiling like a whale clearing its blowhole. Only with slightly less watery back spray.

"Some bloody good you'll be when the collective forces of Heaven and Hell come a knocking. How am I supposed to reach you then? Carrier pigeon? Smoke signals?" Crowley signed, jamming his hands into his pockets and flicking his head off towards the hall. "Come on then, I'll show you around."

"Crowley, I-" Aziraphale got no further than this before the demon turned on his protective slip covered heels and sauntered off. He sighed, taking a deep breath and plucking up some patience from the near eternal celestial arsenal at his disposal before following along with the armful of crunchy (rather itchy feeling, really) clothes.

**~X~**

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**A/N: **Thanks both for reading and supporting the story, everyone! If you have any questions or thoughts about the fic, please don't be afraid to both share and ask! I'll see you for the next update, which should, all things going according to plan, be very soon!

With all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: **Random Good Omens-ervation of the day: In the novel and the script book, Hastur instructs Crowley to sign the documentation (in accepting the passing over of the antichrist) with his ACTUAL demonic name, not the name by which he asks to be referred. Which means that Crowley once possessed an 'angelic' title and another true 'demonic' title, which we never hear about in either the novel or the show. It would be interesting to know just what demon he was supposed to have been, eh?

Anyhoo, some more reading for you, dear... uh, readers. This update continues directly on from where it left off last chapter. Hope that you enjoy and I shall see you on the flip side!

**~X~**

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_**~Tuesday, April 9th - 2019~**_

**_The Grange Estate Nursing Home_**

"This is the break room." Crowley narrated, opening a door up to show a small room, painted dark blue and sporting a wall mounted kitchen isle, a round table hemmed with a number of well worn chairs and an equally set upon couch shoved up against the far wall. "This is where the staff all make tea and coffee and talk at length about their love lives. Sometimes in graphic detail." Crowley crossed the room to where a refrigerator sat humming about the doldrums of life and opened the door, placing the container with the sandwich inside of it. "I've spent a lot of time lately in there. Talking about you."

"So I gather."

"Everyone agrees that it's your fault, by the way." Crowley supposed that this was hardly likely to be the case after Alice put her dinner experience with Aziraphale across to the rest of the staff. He could envision the collective of women being firmly in the angel's corner after hearing tales of his generosity concerning expensive wine, lobster and the not-glancing-up-of-skirts. Apparently this was the sort of behaviour what went a long way with winning a human woman over.

"That_ what's_ my fault, exactly?" Aziraphale remarked, quite unable to keep a frown off of his face at this.

"Oh, they think we're broken up now. That tends to be what happens when human co-dependents haven't seen each other for two months. Living separately, you know."

Aziraphale momentarily spluttered, finding this to just be a little unfair an assessment. "Well, I hardly see how the matter is entirely_ my_ fault! I wasn't the one wanting to keep my distance, if you recall that was _your_ request, not mine-"

"Moving on." Crowley breezed past, perhaps a little haughtily Aziraphale observed and kicked a door directly opposite the break room. It opened up to a small outdoor sitting area, presided over by a vine wreathed gazebo, in which a few aged nests clung obstinately to their roosts. "Out here's the gazebo. Staff go there to smoke on break. I've been smoking a bit too lately." He gave Aziraphale a long look over the lenses of his glasses, daring the angel to have a go at him. Aziraphale, much to his better nature, didn't bite. He did not go to all that effort to be here, simply to make matters the worse.

"If that's what you wish to do." He said fairly, which was a response Crowley hadn't appeared to have been banking on. Turning his head away with a slightly disappointed huff, he marched on, gesturing at some fire equipment and laminated signs tacked to the pock marked, likely asbestos riddled walls.

"Here's our fire safety section. In the event of a fire, the carpark is our marshal station. Follow the instructions of the warden. They're the one who gets to wear the spiffy white hard hat. We will need to wheel the oldies out so they don't burn to death. The warden will instruct us on which sections we need to help evacuate."

He went to move on. Aziraphale had anticipated that this was the momentum the demon would continue to maintain if he didn't execute a little forward thinking here and now. He got between Crowley and wherever it was he meant to go strutting off towards next and held out his palm in a universally recognized gesture to hit the brakes.

"Could you please just stop. Just_ stop_. We need to talk. Please, this is... this is ridiculous." He gestured towards the break room; the room he felt he was likely to get just a little of the privacy he so desperately required at this stage. "Just five minutes. Just to put my side across. I believe I'm owed that much."

If one were to ask Crowley why he was making this all so very difficult for Aziraphale, the demon would likely answer that he himself hadn't the foggiest. It was true that he wanted to talk, quite as much as did Aziraphale and wished ever as earnestly for a kind resolution to what had been a terribly unkind couple of months. Why he was being stubborn, he couldn't say. Only perhaps that he was terribly frightened on the inside and that by moving forwards without pause he made it ever the more difficult for that fear to catch up to him.

There was no evading it now. Whatever happened next would happen. The answer, whether it was what he wanted to hear or what he was ever so desperately afraid to hear, was about to be delivered. He steeled himself, feeling much as he imagined a small child might when they are being called out of class to receive a scheduled inoculation. Sloped his way to the break room; the door of which Aziraphale was holding open for him and drifted over to rest against the countertop. He hit the plastic lever on the jug to heat the water; for someone was likely to be wanting coffee at any given moment and then crossed his arms, surveying the angel whom had settled himself in a safe sort of no-man's land beside the old table.

"Right. What do you want to say?"

They had beaten about the bush to such a degree the previous night that the metaphorical shrubbery was likely sans but a stitch of a leaf by this stage. Aziraphale was very tired and he had gone to a great deal of trouble in order to bring this all about. The time for splitting hairs was well and truly over.

"Well, what do you_ suppose_ I want to say? We need to talk about the-" He realized that he was near about yelling and lowered his voice. Ashamed he might not have been, but that hardly meant that just anyone had a right to hear about their personal business. "-_ the kiss, of course!_"

Crowley's heart gave a kick in his chest what might have put an unborn infant to shame. This was it. If they talked about it, there would be no going back. And though he was a demon who was accustomed to having turned tail throughout most of his six millennia on earth, Crowley was, in that moment, convinced beyond a sliver of a doubt that this was a situation from which he _could not_ and _would not_ run.

He wanted to. The very idea that in but a few moments Aziraphale might very well be lost to him forever was enough to make him feel deathly ill. He thought he might actually vomit, the shakes were so bad. That was precisely why he was keeping his arms crossed. To hide the trembling of his fingers in the crooks of his elbows.

"If you've just dragged me in here to ask me to pretend as though the whole thing never happened," He said, swallowing in what was in fact, a very dry mouth. Acknowledging this would be to set it in stone. A concession of its tangibility. An invitation to address this largely avoided thing they had been dancing on the borders of all these... months? Years? _Centuries?_ "-then don't go and bother. I'm not going to play silly bastards just so as you can go back to sticking your head in the sand."

"That's _not_ what I was going to ask." Aziraphale sighed, pressing his hands together and holding the steeple shape they formed up against his lips. He closed his eyes a moment, marshalling his own fluttering courage. Fighting back those awful, benighted barbs that kept trying to stab, stab, _STAB_ into his mind. Block him at every turn he attempted to take with his emotions. "What I wanted to ask... well, to get some context regards- _clarify_, really was... your um. Your thoughts, your intentions." So far as Aziraphale could tell, Crowley was staring back at him with a look what was vaguely imperious and bored. It was off-putting, though unbeknownst to him, a very fragile farce. "I... I would assume that... given that you... that _we_ kissed that... that it would mean that you... view our relationship as... _being_...?"

Crowley couldn't keep the nervous scoff from popping out at this. Like a tickle in his throat he had been unable to prevent from turning into a cough. "What? We _really_ doing this?"

"Doing what?" Aziraphale asked, confused.

"You know _what._ _Classifying it._ Like it needs classifying. I know how _I_ feel. You know how _you_ feel."

"Yes, but I rather don't know what it is that_ you_ feel." Aziraphale felt that this was a very important distinction to make. "Not entirely. And I don't think that it hurts for us to spell things out. Not if it helps to avoid all this stuff and nonsense in the future."

"You want me to spell it out. Fine. I'll spell it out." Crowley crossed to the fridge, remembering something he had glimpsed earlier when placing his sandwich inside. One of the girls had brought in a cupcake for her morning tea. It was one of those ridiculously overly ornamental things, something which might very well see pride of place in a display window on a rotating pedestal. It was perched on a plate, a plate which dimmed in woeful comparison to the flamboyant baked good settled astride it. Crowley took it from the shelf on which it had been placed and set it down on the table in front of Aziraphale. He gestured to it, as though this in itself was quite enough of an explanation required. "There."

Aziraphale stared at the cupcake, understandably at a loss as to just how he was intended to proceed with the limited amount of direction he had been offered.

"... I can't eat somebody else's cupcake!" He finally blurted out, assuming at long last that for whatever the reason Crowley was trying to make a point about the apple from that day back in the garden; using a cupcake in place of once forbidden fruit. It wasn't a bad interpretation and somewhat on the money, but it was not precisely what Crowley had in mind.

"I'm not_ giving_ you the cupcake, I'm using the cupcake to make a point!" Crowley said, frustrated. He pointed to the pretentious little cake; sitting pretty on its plate as though it were the culinary based equivalent of the Duchess of Kent astride a swan shaped pontoon. "Look at this pompous thing. All the swirly pink icing, the little flowers, the silver dots, the colours. All this effort put into something you're just going to grind into a sweet tasting paste between your teeth. Why do you think humans go to all the effort, eh?"

"Because a good meal is eaten quite as much with your eyes as it is with your lips." Aziraphale gave the otherwise intended automatic response what Crowley had been anticipating. The angel blanched a little upon reaching the end of his recitation, aware that he had walked himself straight into the... well, not so much trap but onto the path which Crowley had otherwise readily paved for him.

"Precisely." Said the clever demon, with an ever more clever smile. "We don't _need_ to eat, Aziraphale. We don't _need_ to drink or sleep for that matter. We do these things because we enjoy them. We could enjoy looking at the aesthetic technique which goes into making a cupcake and never have a real, inherent need to pick it up and take a bite out of it. We could stand here until the cupcake turns to ash and we still won't have starved to death." He lowered his glasses a little, just so as to ensure that his gaze was met. He would not risk taking them off in his workplace but he knew it was ever so important for the angel to see his eyes. "So why do we eat, Aziraphale?"

"Such as you said; because it feels good to do so. It's enjoyable. It makes our time here enjoyable. It's..." The angel gave an ever so slight quirk of his shoulder. There he was; traipsing on down that path, never the wiser to where it might lead but tarrying forth all the same on the sagacious words of an ever more clever demon. "-an experience."

"Yeah. It's an _experience_. A sensation. We're stuck in this world; we might as well experience what it has to offer." He flicked a finger towards the cupcake. "Well... we're... you, I... both of us... we're... cupcakes."

"Oh, I would _never_ wear that shade of pink." Aziraphale sort of joked, meaning only to lighten the tone a little. It seemed a very strange and entirely far too appropriate thing for him to have been the one to come here with some big plan and for Crowley to all but hijack it. "And you're hardly frilly and sweet."

"Don't be clever. I'm trying to make a point." Crowley said, plainly unimpressed by the angels attempt, in his mind, to subvert the trajectory of what was already an incredibly difficult and frightening conversation. He cleared his throat, breaking eye contact for just a moment, because he could see that the sharpness of his tone had hurt Aziraphale. "Look, I uh... let me just uh... try and get this across, eh?" He cleared his throat again. It was thickening. His voice was catching. _Oh shit._ "For six thousand years, I've been... looking at you. Metaphorically perched on a plate in front of me. There's no actual... _need_ for me to have ever picked you up and taken a bite out of you. But in not having done so, I feel as though I have... missed out on something of the full experience of _knowing_ you. To look is one thing. To taste is another. You need _both_ with which to have the_ full experience_."

Aziraphale considered then just what these words meant in conjunction to the moment that the two of them had shared in the Bentley. A kiss, in so few words was an attainment. Much like the biting of the apple. To accrue the very thing that you wanted between your lips was an ageless one.

It was one which Aziraphale understood far too well.

It had always been his weakness.

"I... I see your point." He murmured, a flush lighting itself to the rise of his cheeks. Crowley might have been phrasing himself rather the more elegantly at that moment, but his face was the evidence otherwise of his reticence and he too had gone a rather soft, fetching shade of pink. It was more the obvious around his throat and he was aware of the heat, glancing his palm off of it before rubbing his fingers up behind his neck. Rolling his head so unnecessarily he was starting to resemble a puppet on a loose string.

"I think what it boils down to, is that this is quintessentially no different to that apple all those years ago. You asked me _why_ I was eating it." He glanced back towards Aziraphale, knowing that this was a tremendous ask; to cast one's mind back so many thousands of years. He hadn't forgotten it, true but that shouldn't have suggested such a moment was ingrained upon the lines of Aziraphale's memories with much the same permanence. "You remember what I said in return?"

"Because you wanted it." Aziraphale replied, without hesitance and it was quite enough to make Crowley feel a little weaker in the knees. He hadn't forgotten. All those years and he _still remembered._

"That's right. And I want _you_, just the same as I wanted that apple." He shelved his embarrassment, for it was far too late to attempt to protect himself now and let something else instead creep in. That self-same desire what took control of him that night in the Bentley. Which had _insisted_ on the angel's lips. "To both look at you and to sink my teeth into you."

For Aziraphale this was every inch the conundrum that he had been expecting. The words embarrassed him somewhat, for he was a modest creature and such abrupt, passionate exchanges were hardly in keeping with the decorum he had thus maintained over his thousands of years on earth. But what welled up inside of him, more the ravenous and emphatic still was that very feeling he had surrendered to in the time of the garden. That feeling of being desperately thirsty, and starving, of a tongue resting cracked and dry and unsated between the cradles of his teeth.

Staring at a fruit, forbidden and lovely and all too suited to meet each and every one of those long denied but ever so perilously aching needs.

"Crowley, please..." He murmured, flustered as was to be expected, though not entirely out of embarrassment, which was _not at all_ to be expected. The demon couldn't be certain of such a thing, as these were emotions that the angel was not practiced in and therefore quite unfamiliar to the person what knew him best of all to comfortably interpret.

"You're the one who wanted it spelt out. Let me spell it out." He needed to lay it all on the line now. Go for broke. And not just because his boss would soon get to wondering just where in the Heaven the two of them had sauntered off to. "Conversation is all well and good but there are times where I just want to be... closer to you. Closer than a gaze or a... smile. I worry that you feel such a thing is sinful, that it somehow denounces the inherent value of what it is that we share. But we are well beyond the point where a primitive means of conveying a more simple expression of feeling applies, angel."

Aziraphale wasn't quite certain when he would be able to speak. He felt ever so vulnerable, so touched and so... _relieved_. Crowley was saying all those very things what Aziraphale himself had been feeling, had been wondering. Feelings so strong, so replete with love, with passion that simply sitting beside one another, sharing a glancing eye contact was so grossly inadequate, so infuriatingly stunted that it_ ached_. They felt the same way; their struggle was a shared one, much as it had always been.

"If anything we're just... finding a means by which to attain more from what it is that we feel for each other." Crowley was saying and his words made form of the dense fog of confusion what had taken up residence in Aziraphale's mind for so long. It all seemed a little clearer somehow and the barbs within his mind were numbed by it. "Taking that first _bite_. It should be _okay_ to touch. Touch isn't just about selfish gratification. I mean, conversation can be fake and cheap. As can kissing, as can... sex. There's no difference, not when it comes down to brass tacks."

"Well, I..." He wasn't sure why he was stuttering. It was making sense, all of it. He was glad for it. And yet...

"Answer me honestly. Please." Aziraphale lifted his gaze in response to Crowley's summons. He was looking at him over his glasses again. He appeared far the more defenceless than he had thus far. "Did you... enjoy the kiss?"

Aziraphale hesitated a moment. This was his own hurdle, giving those feelings some sort of hard edges. Picking apart the pieces of that jigsaw puzzle from all the other conflagrating portions what had been set within the box to confuse him. Age old constraints, prejudices and fears rose up sharply inside of him. And a stranger one, yet. That his entire relationship with Crowley, one that had sustained them rather the satisfactorily for the past six thousand years, was about to change forever.

"Yes." He said softly, the word imparted much as a painful whimper. His fingers pinched in so tightly about their counterparts that his deftly filed nails left their marks upon corresponding knuckles. One of Crowley's brows lifted to form what might be considered a near perfect question mark upon the page of his face.

"Really? Because it seems like you would have enjoyed having sharpened bamboo driven up underneath your toenails more."

"I just... it feels... wrong to take... to take..." He looked away now, that self styled shame welling up inside of him. "-pleasure in something that I am attaining primarily for my own benefit. At _your_ expense."

Crowley tilted back his head, casting the groan of his irritation towards the ceiling.

"Oh, that's the biggest load of horse trollop. This is the sort of heavy handed celestial guilt what's tripping you up at days close." He jabbed one of his fingers, now near entirely void of tremors down so hard onto the kitchen bench that he just about jarred the blessed thing. "You seem to be stuck on the idea that physical touch is somehow inherently sinful. But so much of love is a _shared_ experience. Is it any more sinful than your sitting at a table enjoying a mouthful of cake while I sit there and wait for you to finish it?" Aziraphale's features wrenched themselves out of the deep castigation into which they were heavily drenched and shifted instead to encapsulate something what might be considered contrarily thoughtful. This had obviously made some sense to him; as food based comparisons so often did. "At the very least, a kiss is something we can both enjoy _together_. It's an act of _love,_ not the sort of transient pleasure you get from passing a block of chocolate over your tongue. Seems less selfish, when you think about it, really." He sniffed, glancing back towards the vainglorious little cupcake. " I mean, you're the one who reads the books; you should know that not all touch is rooted in sex. And even if it is, what the Heaven does it matter? What sin is there in enjoying the physical; enjoying one another's touch? Sex can be romantic. It can be soft and wholesome and loving and inclusive, I'm sure."

"Is that something you may... want?" Aziraphale closed his eyes, pulling himself together. This was an important question to ask. To ascertain. To... prepare himself for. "To... to make... love?"

Crowley knew entirely well that this above all was going to shake the angel, but they had come too far now for him to sugar coat his desires. "... Yeah. I uh... I do. Yeah." He said, giving a small, somewhat helpless smile. He felt very exposed in admitting to this; as though he were laying bare the naked bonds of his spirit and trusting that all its stretch marks, rolls and imperfections were not about to be laughed at. "To be honest, none of this has ever been off the table for me, angel. I'm _not_ human; it's not like I've been panting after it for six thousand years. But I wouldn't have said no if you'd jumped on me that very first day in the garden. Would have given it a go, at least."

"Well I hardly think that was going to happen!" Aziraphale exclaimed, taking the time to look offended by the wanton suggestion. "You may be handsome but I _do_ have my standards!"

Crowley chuckled, for the outrage was every bit as charming as it ever was. "You _know_ what I mean. I would be comfortable with being with you in whatever form it is that you wished for it to take. ...Or, so I thought. It's just..." He jutted his lips off to the side and grunted. "I dunno... guess I just always thought that if... one day we didn't have Heaven or Hell to worry about...If you were in fact the master of your own making... Suppose I just assumed that it was_ them_ what was the reason you never wanted to get much closer. But they still weigh heavy on you, don't they?" He quirked a fingertip towards the ceiling. "_Old HQ_. Or maybe it's not so much that. A part of me thinks that you're afraid."

"I _am_ afraid." Aziraphale admitted. It was a time now for truth. Even if the truth was not altogether flattering, or brave. It was honest and if there was one person in all the known worlds with whom he ought be honest, it was incontestably Crowley. "I _know_ that it is foolish. And awful. And _unfair_. Because what I feel for you should be more than enough to make the rest of it seem simple, but-"

"You're afraid that giving yourself over to me would _damn_ you."

And there it was. The splinter in his mind what Aziraphale could never so much as bear to give form. He had skirted about this one, explored every other reason for his hesitation, his fears. But this was... it was the big one. It was the cruel one. The age old prejudice. It was where the word _'fraternizing'_ had come from. And _'I am a great deal holier than thou'_. The _'You's_' instead of the _'We's'_. All the cruellest, most conceited, defiant and defensive things what he might ever have felt and directed towards Crowley in his more impassioned of moments.

"It's not that I'm consciously afraid-" Another distinction he thought ever so important to make clear. Crowley once again surprised him in demonstrating in turn just how insightful, intelligent and caring he was, by saying in response:

"- just something inside of you, lurking at the rear of your mind."

"Like a splinter." Aziraphale said, using the word he felt best described it. He took up the knuckles of his right hand, banged them lightly, yet with some fervency against the side of his head. "Like a sodding splinter made from steel that I just can't seem to pry out."

"They _threw you out,_ angel." Crowley was giving him that same sad look he had that night on the bus stop bench. When he had gently reminded the angel that his bookshop had, at least in the reality from which they had just emerged, burned down. The one which made Aziraphale every so often feel as though the demon were in fact ages older, wiser and more patient and knowledgeable than he himself.

"I know."

"It's all over. They don't _care_ what you do anymore. They don't care what _we_ do. We could go and get hitched at the Sydney Mardi Gras wearing five foot tall fruit hats and chocolate sauce bikini's and they wouldn't give two hoots."

"I know, I understand all that, _I do_." Aziraphale said, trying even as he did to not imagine himself wearing a chocolate sauce bikini and a five foot tall fruit rimmed hat. Those were two things much more suited to a summers afternoon; chocolate sauce in a bowl and fruit on skewers ready to be dipped. Not assembled into some bizarre Carmen Miranda-esque culinary garment to be paraded about for all and sundry to goggle at. "All I ask is for you to acknowledge is that I _have_ this fear. Regardless of how pointless it is, how offensive and hurtful it is. I don't_ want_ this fear. I want to be shot of it but I just can't seem to shake the damned thing. The feeling is so very strong at times!"

"Stronger than what you feel for me?" Crowley asked, the slightest hitch to his voice. The look on his face and the sadness which touched itself to the borders of his tone were enough to wrench Aziraphale firmly out of the confusing cluster of emotions swirling about inside of him and instil some much needed clarity.

"No. Absolutely not." He had been firm with Crowley many a time throughout their six thousand year acquaintance. Never had he been quite so firm as this very moment. "There is nothing stronger which exists inside of me than what I feel for you. I wouldn't be standing here, otherwise."

The words had pleased, surprised and embarrassed Crowley a little. A demon, ever so practiced in portraying a calm and cool demeanour was set to biting his lip like a schoolgirl who had seen the Yes circled on her 'Do you like me - Yes or No' slip after having it passed back to her by the boy she fancied. Crowley felt similarly overcome and he glanced away, trying without much success to pull himself together. He was suddenly and acutely at odds with his body and ever so much aware that the modicum of control he had been enjoying in this situation had been systematically routed in just this one succinct and loving statement alone.

"Wasn't expecting that."

"No, I can tell." Aziraphale was concerned about the icing melting on the cupcake and so he took it upon himself to return the baked good to the fridge. Now that it seemed Crowley's point had been proven. "You know, this all rather begs the question that if you are in fact so keen for us to incorporate a physical aspect to our relationship, why you felt the need to run away the other night after you kissed me."

"Because you started kissing me_ back_. And I thought that's probably what I wanted." Crowley sighed, chewing at a corner of his lip. This was all... very real all of a sudden. "Then I realized I wanted it just a little _too_ much. And you probably wanted it a whole lot less than I did."

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asked, closing the fridge and returning to his unconsciously designated post beside the table. He was still holding onto the work uniform and had been the entire time they'd been talking. It seemed strange that he hadn't yet set it down. As though it were serving as some manner of... shield.

"Don't be stupid. We both know what I mean. The second you... parted your lips..." Crowley sounded a Heaven of a lot cooler than how he was actually feeling. There was sweat popping out on the back of his neck like voles erupting from holes in an otherwise perfectly groomed front garden. "I wanted you more than anything I ever wanted in all my life. Enough that I could have hurt you, if only it meant that I could_ consume_ you. Enough to take a bite out of your very soul." He was really wishing he carried a handkerchief now. This was more the likely about to turn into an unsightly stain down the back of his work shirt. "Knew I had to stop. There's more than that to it, of course. But that was enough. I've spent six thousand years trying to protect you, Aziraphale. Never thought I'd have to go and protect you from myself, but there you go. Ain't irony a bitch, huh?"

"What... what did you suppose was going to happen if you... if you _didn't_ pull away?"

"Something I'm quite sure you're not ready for." Crowley said, wondering even as he said it whether he was in fact any more the ready for such a... thing than the angel. He might have been a demon, but that meant zilch so far as sex was concerned. "Believe it or not Aziraphale, I'm no better with any of this stuff than you are. I'm just better at accepting it. I've been okay with being at arms length all these years. There were fences in place. Rules, boundaries, reasons, permissions, un-permissions. But those aren't there any more. I can't stop thinking of the freedom it brings. The possibilities. Having you not at arms length but within fingers reach..." He held up a hand, spread his fingers apart just enough so as to stare at Aziraphale between them. Dropped it back into the safe crook of his elbow. "It scares me. It scares me that I want it for the wrong reasons. I_ like_ tempting you. I _like_ the fact that you're an angel, I'm a demon and that I can talk you around to things. I talked you into the Arrangement. I talked you into taking that first bite of food. But I don't want to talk you around to this. Not _this_. I don't want to try to convince you of things that you don't, a hundred percent, feel at ease with. That you don't _want_."

"But I _do_ want you." Aziraphale said quietly and it was an admission enough to near cripple the both of them in one fell swoop.

"Don't say that." Crowley said. That small flush of hope was so strong, so much more the temptation than any he himself might ever have offered. He wanted so desperately for it to be within reach.

"Why?" The angel asked, who had felt himself very courageous in speaking up. For voicing what it was that he was truly feeling, in spite of all those awful celestial barbs driving themselves tooth and nail into his gentle soul.

"Because we both know it's not true. Just like in the car the other day. Kissing me because you thought that was what I wanted you to do. Because that's what an angel _should_ do. Make others happy, even at the expense of themselves. Isn't' that right?"

Aziraphale had been thinking this very thing, it was true. Blessed moments before he had genuinely started to take enjoyment in the act for himself. Crowley was aware of that, to some degree. They knew each other too well at times.

"Yes, it's true that I want to make you happy but that is not the whole reason that I kissed you back." Aziraphale said, adding just a little more of that firm candour to his voice. "What I am _trying_ to tell you, if you would desist with being so stubborn for just one moment is that... I want it too."

Crowley's glasses had dropped a little lower on the bridge of his nose. It hadn't been intentional. This was ever so telling to Aziraphale. The demon was never one to present a dishevelled façade. Most every movement was predetermined, fraught with great design and intent. It was how most effective temptations were executed, of course. This lapse, slight as it might seen in the eyes of others, was gargantuan in Aziraphale's.

"I want to be... closer." Said the angel. It took a great deal of strength, of courage to say this. But it warmed him. It warmed him the more to see the lines in Crowley's face soften, for the tension to ease down out of shoulders he probably wasn't even the aware of his having hiked up so high as they were. "It's just... these walls that are inside of me... Heaven's fingernail... It _scratches_, every time I... I try to explore this."

"It hurts you?" Crowley asked, genuine concern making its mark in his face now. He hadn't even considered that the struggle Aziraphale was experiencing might in fact have been a physical one quite as much as it was a mental, spiritual and emotional one.

"Yes. It does. But I want you to know that that pain has _nothing_ to do with what I feel for you. Whatever this is, it is something that is congruent in the makeup of what makes an angel an angel. It is through no fault of your own." He squared up. He couldn't remember the words that he had been planning to say; not entirely. But he knew full well what it was that he _wanted_ to say. The words he wished he had said the previous night, when Crowley had been standing in the doorway; all but begging for him to take that first step.

"I am not and _never_ have been ashamed of you, Crowley. The very thought that you could be going through life believing such a thing is more painful than that infinitesimal scratching against my soul." Warmth flooded his face as Crowley first tilted his head back and then down, pushing his glasses out of the way of his hand to press his fingers against his eyes. His shoulders shuddered with silent sobs, fought ever so hard to contain but unable to temper down. "I _adore_ you, my dear. I absolutely, unequivocally adore you. I am prouder of you with every day that passes and prouder still that I am the person to whom you have invested ever so much of your time and your life and your heart. Please don't_ ever_ doubt that. Any weakness of character I might exhibit is not at all a reflection of my feelings for you. There is nothing stronger than that."

Crowley was unable to respond for quite some time. He was much too overwhelmed, far too relieved to put anything into words. He pursed his lips and looked away, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. The sight was astonishing to Aziraphale. He had never before seen Crowley cry. The tears were a new thing. They were pure and crystalline and more beautiful than anything he could ever remember seeing. A demon's tears... Wrought from sadness of relief, of _love_...

Crowley for his part felt as though an industrial clamp had been eased from about the cage of his chest. He had little idea as to just how much pain, how much tension he'd been holding onto those last few months. The fear that Aziraphale would not have felt the same. Would have awkwardly advised that something deeper, something physical was not anything of which he was interested and further denominate that bond which they so obviously shared. The relief was staggering. So much so, that the demon hadn't been aware of the fact that he had been crying. Well... he was_ aware_ but more to the point was that he was not aware of his usual need to veil such things.

And it wasn't crying. Not really. A couple of little tears. Nothing to write home about.

"Shit." He nonetheless cursed, thinking it a very good thing that this hadn't happened whilst he was still working for hell. Dropping your emotional bundle in front of an angel would have been cause for any number of violent ribbings. "Stupid bastard. What the Heaven do you go and say to something like that?"

"You don't need to say anything." Aziraphale took a measured breath and slowly placed the bundle of clothes down on the nearby table. His heart thundered through its next however so many beats, leaving him feeling strangely dizzy. "It's... it's going to take some time but... I mean to work on it. To break down those walls so that the... the scratching... doesn't hurt so much."

"I don't want you _hurting_, angel." Crowley said, utilizing his thumbs now so as to scoop out the last of the tears from the bags beneath his eyes. Shoot. His poor human body really wasn't getting enough sleep. "I didn't even think that-"

"It's all right." Aziraphale smiled. He took a step. The step resonated. He took another and then another still. It was perhaps only seven or so steps to close the gap what rested between both himself and Crowley but each of them sounded out just as resolutely and as deeply as the tolling of an ancient bell. Seven small steps to bring close an immeasurable and cavernous distance, what might have transcended further still than the very most remote of distant stars.

Crowley watched him, those large eyes growing more the luminous by the moment. His Adams apple rose and fell as he swallowed. Whilst words had been parried, the demon had felt himself, much as always, incontestably in control. Now that it was motion what carried forward and not tarrying of tongues, he was uncertain as to just what grip he might have maintained upon the wheel.

He could feel it being gently guided out from underneath the hold of his metaphorical fingers and into those instead of Aziraphale, who was savouring every moment; eyes softly shining as he reached down and took Crowley's glasses, placing them onto the bench beside them. They were close now. Very close. Crowley's hand was still poised much as it had been when the glasses had been pinched between his fingers. Aziraphale's own hand sought to fill the gap.

"It's quite all right." The angel whispered, pressing his fingers up between those of the demon's. Their palms touched, thumbs grazed and caressed like lovers come together. Pushing back against the awful barbs what might otherwise have held him at bay, Aziraphale glanced his palm over Crowley's cheek, permitted himself that lovely flush of desire what came with the brushing of those exquisite cheekbones and twined his hand about the back of the demons neck. He felt the short hairs there at attention; the down which might have been soft if not for the razor what kept it short.

They did not come together with great and abrupt passion, but softly and slowly, their lips meeting with a tenderness which lacked nothing of the depth of feeling at its foundations.

The joining was yet enough to sunder those last remaining vestiges of uncertainty and the draw became tighter still; Crowley's arm finding purchase about Aziraphale's shoulders and bringing their bodies in flush and warm and wanting. Their fingers, poised still by their side, wove their own dance; entwining, twisting and stroking, like a pair of amative snakes stowed together in a basket long secreted from the light of day. The barbs panged at Aziraphale fiercely and he countered this by projecting deeper still into the physical; the very new and very fine feeling of lips meeting, of breaths deepening, of the pressured caress of hands and thighs and everything else in-between.

As Crowley parted his lips to take yet another indulgent sup of his own, Aziraphale seized the opportunity for which he had been waiting and glanced his tongue into the gap made briefly between their heated mouths. He remembered Crowley having done so that first time they had kissed in his car and he had wanted to be the one to do so now; to reassure the demon that it was okay. That he truly did want this quite so much as he did.

Crowley pulled back slightly when he felt the darting touch of Aziraphale's tongue. His lips parted still, not so far removed that one could suggest he had in fact broken the kiss but was uncertain as to how to proceed. Aziraphale once more reminded himself that this was not just new to him, but to _both_ of them.

"It's okay." He softly murmured, sliding his hand back around and brushing over the rise of Crowley's cheek. Placed a feather light kiss to his lips; once, twice, three times. Between those soft and reassuring points of contact, he whispered: "Part your lips, my darling. It's okay. _Trust me.._."

Crowley did of course trust him and so he parted his lips, allowing Aziraphale's tongue to enter his mouth. Both moaned softly at the deepening of their kiss; a kiss quite extraordinary in its own right to serve as the highest intensity of pleasure either had ever cause to experience. It was a little awkward still, as they were new to it but the touch of one another's tongues was sensual and intimate and spoke a thousand words more than all the millions they had otherwise exchanged throughout the passing of the ages.

Aziraphale put his hand to the sway in Crowley's back. It had been an instinctual thing but the pleasure he derived from cupping that decadent indent, from tracing the inlay what prefaced the curve of his buttocks was wonderful. He pressed his palm in harder, took Crowley's bottom lip between his own and drew on it. The demon murmured; gave what sounded to be the softest of whimpers.

It roused something in Aziraphale; the understanding that they were both, in that very moment, awakening to the shared sensation of mutually discovered pleasure, caught up entirely with the attainment of one another. He pulled Crowley harder to him, slid the lengths of their tongues together, felt the demons fingers ghost throughout the tangles of his hair, the softly brokered utterance of his name spoken between heated breaths.

There existed nothing in this moment but the two of them, a kiss so many a thousand years in the making and the distant clicking of the breakroom door as it swung open behind them.

**~X~**

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**A/N:** If I was caught doing that in my workplace, I would most definitely be fired. (Shrugs) Oh well. That's a problem for another chapter, ay? ;)

If you have any questions or thoughts on the piece, feel free to ask and or share. Hope that you enjoyed and I shall see you back shortly for the following updates!

Until next time, do take care of yourselves beautiful people!

With all my infernal love,

~Madammortis~ xxx ooo


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Good Omens-ervation of the day: Sometimes I feel as though I am the only member of the fandom that does not have Crowley growing his hair out again. Don't get me wrong; David Tennant has the jaw structure and exquisite features what give credit to any hairstyle and, yes, I was not immune to how good 'Crowley' looked with his little half-pulled back bun thing that everyone ejaculates over. I've just always preferred short hair; on women as well as men. I think a beautiful face stands out more with short hair, and I honestly think Crowley looks a freakin' spunk bubble with his hair cut into its little spiky. (Shrugs) That's just me, though. Fandom is a wonderful world where we are free to indulge what we enjoy, and if you personally get off on Crowley with long, flowing lustrous locks what would put a palomino to shame, then go crazy with it. Outside of flashback scenes, however, it is not going to happen in this fic. No matter how much I love the idea of Aziraphale grabbing a big handful of it during particular not-safe-for-work... moments. (Drifts droolingly away into fantasy land)

(Clears throat) Anyway, moving right along! Thank you to those lovely people what dropped a review for last chapter and thanks also to everyone who is reading, following and favouriting! I hope you enjoy, gentle readers, and I shall catch you on the far side!

**~X~**

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_**~Tuesday, April 9th - 2019~**_

_**London's Soho**_

_**Nine months to the Apex...**_

Humanitas had been knocking on the front door of _**A.Z. Fell & Co **_for quite some time.

Well, not consecutive time. That might very well have been considered far too sad for words and a terrible indictment of his not having otherwise the more interesting things to do with his day.

He had gone and attended to some other business when it became apparent that his summons was not being adhered to. Taken a short walk, purchased a coffee and a poppy seed muffin. Shared most of said muffin with the rather forthright ducks of St James's Park. Received a rather considerable fine from a somewhat constipated looking gentleman for feeding the ducks a poppy seed muffin St James's Park. Went to the post office and summarily paid the fine. Certainly, he might have used his magic to had dispensed with the matter entirely, but that was hardly in the nature of what kindness was all about, wasn't it?

Humanitas had in fact popped back to Aziraphale's store approximately three times in the course of one morning. He had supposed that the angel might very well have taken himself out and about on some manner of adventure, more the likely concerning the opening of some new delicatessen or patisserie or whatever other food specific organisation might have sprung up in Soho and might be frequented at that time of day. But it was strange for him to in fact be absent from the store for hours at a time.

At least it had been, so far as Humanitas was aware. And he felt that he did rather know the angel relatively well. They had been acquainted for over six thousand years, after all.

"Funny. He normally sings out that he's closed, in the least." Humanitas checked his watch; fake leather, (of course) older than the hills and encapsulating granule thin filaments what might have once been a battery but had rotted away over forty years prior. Pure force of will kept the hands ticking over and these hands indicated that the time was currently eleven am. "Odd time of day to be out. Breakfast must have run late..."

Humanitas supposed there were any number of things what might waylay an otherwise simple natured angel in todays' fast paced society. Indeed, it was more the likely that he had gotten caught up in some sort of caper orchestrated by his equally fast paced little ginger-haired demon friend. A possibility for which the Virtue could hardly imagine ever holding the angel to task. A handsome face was near impossible to say no to, at least so far as his own experiences were concerned.

The Virtue was snapped smartly out of his reveries by the itinerant jingling of his mobile phone. It was antiquated, much as his watch, and still had a small antenna which he was required to first yank out from the main body before flipping open the base and pressing yet another button further to answer it.

"Yes, hello?"

There was a brief burst of static interference, which the Virtue cleared with the slightest infinitesimal flicker of his mind. A voice what he hadn't heard for some time came through with a degree of clarity what a mobile phone of that advanced age really ought not to have succeeded with.

"Humanitas? It's Patientia."

Humanitas's smile warmed all the more brightly beneath the apron of his thick, impeccably trimmed moustache.

"Hello there, my dear! Oh it's been ever so long. How the devil are you?"

"To be honest... going out of my mind, a little." She gave a slight, rather the more feminine sounding chuckle. Patientia, the Virtue of Patience, was one of the few of their kind what chose to transition between genders throughout the passing of the years on earth. It was a means, they found, of better accommodating and understanding the various fluxes and particular circumstances of each individual they encountered. To better inform their practice.

In the past twenty years, she had been living as female; though Humanitas knew full well that the vulnerability in their voice would not have been less impactful, than if she had been male. The fear was so sepulchral. It resonated even through the speaker of the primordial mobile device.

"I... yes, the others told me that he..." Humanitas swallowed, surprising himself in that feeling of anxiety what had formed itself into a mean little lump in the nadir of his throat. It was rare, for creatures such as them. Secondary in power only to the Lord God, herself. "Well, that he's back."

"He landed somewhere in Italy." Patientia confirmed, her voice quavering. "Making his way closer by the day." She took a breath and Humanitas could near about feel her working on each individual nerve in her body so as to try and keep herself from falling apart. The drawing together alone would have been shock enough; after that insurmountable distance what had been dropped between the counterparts. But she, for that reason, was privy to the inner most workings of her other half. "I can feel it. In the earth. The air. He's... he's so... angry."

"Well, we all knew he was likely to be rather cross. Considering the circumstances." It was a vacillating understatement, of course. He turned his attention to more the relevant matters. Patientia had called him specifically and he had some understanding as to why. He was the living epitome of kindness, after all. "Where are you now?"

"Been plying my wares in America, for all the good it seems to be doing." She had a genuine little laugh at her own self-imposed folly. "Patience appears to be something of a foreign concept over here."

"Generational I think, dear." Humanitas remarked, fairly. "Not much better at it in most walks of the world, I'm afraid."

"True." She chuckled and Humanitas registered a muffled voice off in the background of wherever it was she must have been lingering. "I'm just about to board a plane back to England. He'll be arriving there soon. ...I need to meet him first."

"Let me know when your flight gets in. I can come with you to meet him."

"_No_. No, that... that wouldn't be a good idea... he's been gone so long. He was a handful before the sentencing, but now..." Patientia was clearly going to enormous strains to hold herself together but the terror was starting to take hold. He could hear it leaching into her words, twisting what he knew to be tears from her olive shaped eyes. "He might kill even me. He'll... well, he'll hurt me, anyway. He always did."

"Oh, my dear..." Humanitas murmured, taking a handkerchief from his breast pocket and using it to wipe at his own eyes. He knew entirely well in just what manner Ira meant to 'harm' his counterpart. They had seen it happen before; though Patientia had done her utmost to have kept it quiet, fearing reprisal on the part of her other half. It had been one of the reasons as to why they had agreed to send him far, far away in the first place. "Can you... not change your physicality? Would he be the less likely to harm you if you present yourself as male for the inaugural meeting?"

Patientia barked a bitter sounding laugh. "You must be joking. The body doesn't matter. So long as there's an orifice in which to stick it, what difference is the wrapping? And if there's no orifice available, he'll just go and tear me a new one." She had succumbed entirely to tears now and Humanitas could see her plain as day in his minds eye; slumped on a bench outside of the airport, cigarette dangling from between limp fingers and shoulders shaking with the force of her misery. "I... I'm afraid he will kill me. Over seven thousand years, Humanitas... He'll break all my bones, make me bleed... I'm so... I'm so fucking scared..."

"I shall come with you." Said the Virtue of Kindness with a firmness of tone he wasn't oft to employ. "You don't need to face this alone, Patientia."

"Please my darling, you are the very sweetest and gentlest of us all. I couldn't have you brought to harm. None of you." She sighed, marshalling some phantom degree of strength from some uncharted corner of her spirit and took another deep suck from the filter of her smoke. "No. He is my shadow. My responsibility. He has greatest need of me yet. The pull between us is worse still than the pain I know is coming."

"Is there anything at all I can do? Anything?"

"Just answer my calls. Such as you always do." He could see her still in the screen at the rear of his mind, mustering up that brave and selfless smile they all knew so well. "I'll see you soon."

"Yes. Fly safe." Humanitas murmured, waiting until it was she what had terminated the call before folding his phone back in upon itself and slipping it into his inside pocket. He spent a while simply standing there, stretching out the corners of his mind in a bid to touch to the borders of Ira's currently mobile rage. There was only silence in return. Strange to think, how something could be so resounding and violent to one of his kin and yet so indistinguishable to him.

A pair of hands slipped suddenly around to cover his eyes and he might have felt a burst of panic if not for the familiar and much coveted scent of oriental perfume drifting up to fill the channels of his nose.

"Guess who, my love?" Came the melodic voice from just behind his ear. His smile curled tightly in the corners so it appeared to be paying tribute to the gloriously styled hank of facial hair what rested above it.

"The same perfume as two hundred years ago. Does nothing change?"

"Why should I change something I know full well that you adore?" The hands slid away from his eyes and Humanitas turned. A woman was standing before him; Indian, so far as appearances were concerned and looking to be in her early to mid fifties. She was dressed in a bright, exotically detailed green sari and possessed the sort of brilliant, understated shine of a pearl.

"It's been too long." Invidia said, her accented voice (adopted entirely as keeping with appearances) and her lips curled up to form a lovely, subtle bow. Her hands, each exquisitely ornamented, refined and with nails scrupulously attended to, crossed over to rest abridge of her hips, with fingers lightly merged. The very definition of composure, which was a long running joke between the pair. It was such a feeble cover for the otherwise clamorous emotion just so barely restrained at their meetings.

"Ten years. Such lonely years at that." He extended his arms to her and she moved so as to be coveted by them. The kiss they shared conveyed a passion unrivalled by that shared between any two humans in all the ages having long since passed. Even when parted, their love could be readily measured in the passing of palms and fingers and gazes alone; caresses what reminded their owner of shapes long since relegated to memory.

"Astonishingly beautiful as ever." Humanitas at long last remarked, taking the delicate fingers of his counterpart between his own and guiding her to spin beneath the canopy of his arm.

"You always say that." Invidia smiled, lifting the hem of her sari so that the extravagant detail could best be admired. Since the moment of its cultural rise, Invidia had always adored India; in particular, its' fashion and architecture. It was of her opinion, that nothing save the decadent designs of the ancient world of Japan had ever compared to it. She spent much of her time on earth in India, carving out a home for herself and conducting what business what required direction from there.

Humanitas, of course, was never one to abide settling down. He would consider it far too self-indulgent. The world was much in need of kindness and sitting idle was not the means by which to most capably distil his influence. It required travel; both frequent and far.

Which was a shame for two creatures what loved one another quite as exquisitely as they did. Of the fourteen Vices and Virtues, they were the counterparts what were most deeply impassioned by one another; who were incomparably and unapologetically bonded.

Earth life might have worked to draw them apart all these years but distance changed nothing so far as what it was they felt for one another.

And now... now they need never be apart again.

"I always _need_ to say that." Humanitas established, with a knowing twinkle of the eye. "You would suspect me of debauchery otherwise."

"Terrible." The Vice of Envy remarked, knowing it to be true and as frustrated by her integrated motivations as she always had been. "I trust that you will always be faithful but the long years apart... The plethora of willing, available human bodies-"

"-dim in abject comparison to that of your own, my dear. You know full well there is not but another star in the sky what shines brighter than you. You are my world, my Heaven, my everything." He kissed the back of her hand, his thick moustache tickling as it brushed atop her knuckles. She gave that same tinkling laugh; what always sounded so distinctly of a gathering of tiny bells, caught in a gentle breeze.

"I do love when you lay it on thick." She spared a glance towards the book shop, the corner of her lip twitching tellingly. "Visiting your little_ friend_ again?"

Invidia was not fond of Aziraphale, and ever the less fond of the friendship he shared with her counterpart. She would have much preferred to portray security in her relationship, but it was next to impossible when your very essence was that of envy itself. She could never help but take to wondering as to whether Humanitas derived something from his friendship with the angel, that she herself was unable to provide him with.

It was a fear what scraped against her soul like a steel grater.

"That was the intention but he doesn't appear to be in." Humanitas petted a hand to the satchel he continued lugging about over his left shoulder. He was aware that the weight was likely to be bending his spine permanently crooked like a banana, but it was a simple fix really and he'd had the bag an awful long time. And his were personal possessions what he could hardly bear the thought of parting with. So many gifts of gratitude from those humans he had helped... "Had this book over three decades now, you would think him anxious to be getting it back."

"Well I'm quite certain he hasn't been waiting around for it for thirty years." Invidia rolled her eyes, placing her hand in the crook of Humanitas's arm and giving him a light tug so as to guide him away down the footpath. "Come with me. You have time to kill and I rather fancy a reunion what takes place betwixt the privacy of four walls, don't you?"

It was crowded that morning, but the thronging human citizens found themselves compelled to move out of the way of the oddly paired couple; giving them free pass to the centre of the footpath. Even those mothers with prams found themselves willing to risk ejecting their newborns into the rush hour traffic, rather than continue on down the straight and otherwise vehicle free narrow.

"My dear, a demon could learn a thing or two about tempting from that wily tongue of yours." Humanitas said with a soft chuckle. His tone was somewhat distant, however and though it were unlikely to have been picked up on by those who did not know him, Invidia was intricately familiar with the ins and outs of her counterpart (though currently more the interested in exploring the in's, as it were) and observed what might otherwise have been interpreted as an ever so subtle nuance.

"You seem distracted, my love." She said and knew, from this alone, that Humanitas would profess as to why. He was a Virtue and they were not taken to lying under most any circumstance. And he most certainly would never have lied to her.

"I am, rather." He glanced down at Invidia. His body was that of a tall man in his late sixties and she was very slight by comparison; such that it was a little jarring to see them walking side by side. "Just received a call from Patientia."

Invidia nodded thoughtfully, understanding much of the context without Humanitas being required to go into further detail.

"Of course. ... And... how does she fair...?"

"Truthfully?" Humanitas gazed ahead, his moustache twitching its discontent. "She sounds terrified. Absolutely at the end of her tether. I offered to go and meet him with her-"

"And she refused."

"Quite. You should think her trait that of stubbornness, rather than patience." He set a hand to his stomach, an old pain resurfacing violently as the acids twirled about against the lining. He had an ulcer somewhere in there. It flared up whenever he got to worrying at considerable depth about things. And this was a concern what was more than likely to spot another couple of additional sores for his efforts.

"She was the only one ever able to reign in Ira's impulses when they flared and even she struggled at times." Invidia rubbed a palm comfortingly over Humanitas's forearm. "I wager she is only meaning to protect you."

"Protect us all." He sighed and flinched as his stomach roiled again, wondering if there might be somewhere along the way they could stop for a glass of milk. About the only thing that really seemed to settle it. "I can't even imagine what it should be like. Seeing him again after all these long years..."

"That's going to be one _very_ angry Capital Vice."

"Angry? Oh, I hardly think that does the word at all justice, my dear." He paused as they crossed the street, cars slowing so as to permit them safe passage. The drivers were not even the least aware of their having feathered their brakes at all. "She is afraid that he will hurt her."

"Oh, he will." Said Invidia, not bothering the least with sugar coating it. That was hardly a Vice's want, to attempt to white wash a circumstance what was otherwise irredeemable. "Nothing more to be certain. The Vice and the Virtue are entitled to one another. Their passions, their will, their desires must be shared."

"But he has been alone over seven thousand years. And he was positively monstrous on a simple day by day basis. Even with more the..." He flinched his eyes shut; the thought abhorrent and distasteful. "... means he found to... satiate his... temper."

"Darling, there is nothing we can do. Patientia won't die from it. It..." She got on her tippy toes, so as to glance her fingers down either side of Humanitas's kind, loving and deeply lined face. All the worries of the world, all the cruelties of man had aged him; wracked his human body in a way what could never be undone. It was typical, she thought, for him to care so intensely for anything and everything other than himself. The sooner they could wipe those entitled wretches from the face of God's good earth, the better. "It will happen. She will heal and then the good work will begin."

"The work, you mean." He said, in a voice about as close to testy as Kindness could perpetuate. "Don't delineate it by referring to it as the 'good work'. We both know, at days end that it is simply 'work'. Thinking of it as 'good'... that just makes it all the more difficult to accommodate."

"Sometimes I hardly know whether it is that you are too sweet or too much in denial." Invidia smiled, raising her fingers so that a puddle into which they might otherwise have stepped dried up on the spot. "Either way, it is endearing and I do love you ever so much for it."

No more words were needed. Not for some time anyway. Over a decades worth of waiting was more the pressing matter. And such passions were hardly appeased by the inadequacy of conversation.

(One might go so far as to say that it was a life's lesson what quite a few creatures of the preternatural world were learning that very day!)

**~X~**

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**A/N: **Thanks as always everyone for giving me just a little of your time today! If you enjoyed, it would float my boat immensely if you were to take the time to inform me as to why. Favourite or follow, you know the drill!

I shall see you over in the next update! Take care on your journey there, my darlings :)

With all my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N:** Random Good Omens-ervation of the day: You remember that scene in episode one, where Crowley pretty much got Aziraphale drunk on the pretext of talking him around to saving the world together (try his luck at getting into Aziraphale's pants)? Pretty iconic scene, really. Remember too, that wine bottle Aziraphale was having such a difficult time trying to decant into his glass; given the aforementioned drunkness? Did anyone else notice that the top of the bottle was _broken? _

What in the name of God did those two dunder heads _do _to that bottle? How much resistance did a simple cork put up, if smashing the top of the bottle clear off was the preferred solution? Why wasn't magic-ing the cork out of the neck of the bottle a viable option? How did they not get glass in their wine?

I mean, I'll be the first to admit (as a self-confessed soak) that there have been times I have been incredibly tempted to smash the head off of a bottle just to get to the self-medicinal nectar within. But I haven't. And those few times I have dropped a bag with a wine bottle in it and managed to save what wine I could, I always put that sunovabitch through a sieve first. (Nods sagely) Aziraphale? No fucks given. Just pours the wine straight into his glass, out of the shattered, broken neck and slurps drunkenly and yet seemingly, contentedly away. Shards of glass more the likely just swirling around in his belly, stomach lining being punitively shredded and resulting in a very painful, possibly life threatening 'evacuation' some hours down the track. (Shudders at the very thought of pissing out glass)

I think about that scene way more than I really ought to. Wondering what exactly happened, what conversation was had, which culminated in the neck of that bottle being smashed. Wishing desperately to have seen it actually played out. Maybe I'll write it one day; who knows?

Okay, enough of my wankery for now. The next update, gentle readers! I hope that you enjoy, and I shall see you on the flip side!

**~X~**

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_**~Tuesday, April 9th - 2019~**_

_**The Grange Estate Nursing home - London Suburbia**_

Neither of them had been quick enough. Neither of them had_ cared_ to be quick enough. The kiss was much too intense, much too _needed_. The world around them continued to move at the same pace as it had always done, but for Crowley, time had altogether ceased to exist. An ability he himself was capable of doling out where required, but it was not by his hands that the wheels beyond the veil ceased to churn the grinding sands forward.

It was the kiss. _Aziraphale's_ kiss.

No, ..._their_ kiss.

The kiss that Aziraphale had _initiated_. The angel what hadn't contented himself with the simple taking of that first decisive step but rather plunged himself headlong into a full-blown triathlon. Had imparted upon Crowley a kiss such as the demon could only ever have dared to imagine; had cocked his head to the curious side in having been witness to such exchanges on television, on street corners under lambent, golden lights, at train stations, blanketed by tender fingers of bathetic fog. Had pondered, considered at depth, set a finger to the centre of his tongue as some minor means of replicating the physical sensation what might be experienced in a kiss so utterly transcendent with feeling.

Aziraphale seemed every bit as lost to the moment as Crowley. And far the more... ravenous than the demon had ever supposed him capable. The hand he had fixed to the sway of Crowley's back applied a possessive pressure, the thumb and fingers of his other hand sliding over and between the demons with ever the more intensifying need.

To say nothing of the claim he had made concerns Crowley's lips and tongue. There was hunger there. Hunger what sent Crowley's flesh to shivering in the bonds of his immalleable work uniform, rendered his knees weaker than they already were and made him physically _ache_ with desire.

They were in fact pressed so tightly to one another, he could hardly imagine that Aziraphale would not be made aware of his 'desire'. He desperately wished to move his hips forward, an instinct for which the body cried out, but the door clicking open shot all that to spectacular shit.

"Whoa, _okay_ boys."

The last thing Crowley wanted in all of known creation was to break that kiss. If he was being honest (a trait not considered the least bit demonic but one with which he was ever so invariably acquainted) Crowley would much prefer in fact for the kiss to continue; with one minor adjustment of his in fact being hoisted onto the bench so that Aziraphale could move to stand between his legs.

His imagination gave a soft moan at the conjured image and Crowley near followed suit. But Aziraphale, being himself, of course, had more than the prescient desire to which he could capably attend, and one of these was his not wanting Crowley to get into trouble in his workplace. At the sound of the voice from the doorway, he turned his face away; leaving Crowley's own puckered lips suspended preposterously in mid-air.

"Don't get me wrong," Came the sound of Alice's (_thank whoever_) voice from behind the now partially closed door. "It's not that I'm not _thrilled_ to see that the two of you have either made up or about to have some really mega intense hate sex, but Rita catches you doing that in work hours and it'll be both your arses off to PR. Plus... you know. I make coffee on that bench, Cumquat. Prefer that your arse wasn't rubbing up against it, yeah?"

"Sorry." Crowley stammered, placing a hand across his brow as some means of shielding his eyes and skittered his fingers along the benchtop in a bid to locate his glasses. "He, uh... well,_ I_ um..."

Whatever supposed cool was thought to be in possession by Anthony J. Crowley had seemingly taken a long saunter off of a very short pier. He couldn't seem to get the words out. His tongue felt numb, more from the shock of what had occurred rather than it having been blistered into a state of non-compliance by the insistence of Aziraphale's kiss. Aziraphale, who was attempting to assist Crowley in returning to some semblance of _status quo_ by slipping his hand from the small of his waist and disentangling their sweaty fingers from about one another's. Crowley wanted none of that. He wanted, in fact, to be anywhere but on the clock.

Alice gave an indulgent chuckle from her door side garrison. "Don't worry, mate. I don't see a kiss and tell. Just between us pigeons." Her hand edged around the peeling jam and she flicked her fingers in a sort of _shooing _gesture. "But seriously, wind it up before Rita comes a knocking."

"Yes. Of course." Aziraphale cleared his throat, casting a smile towards the young woman just out of sight in the hallway. "Ever so sorry."

The hand gave a carefree wave before retreating out of sight like an eel stealing itself into a gap between rocks. Alice's footsteps receded off into the middle distance and Crowley and Aziraphale took a much needed moment in which to pull themselves together.

Aziraphale cast his hands through his hair in a forwards motion, attempting to tame the curled locks which Crowley's fingers had hungrily caressed to every which way. Crowley had a brief, thirty second internal conversation with his nether regions; the context of which consisted predominantly of _'cease and desist.'_ Being a penis, it was of course in possession of selective hearing and wasn't much in the mood to adhere to its Generals commands.

"So..." Crowley eventually drawled, sliding his glasses back onto his substantially flushed face. He didn't bother with carrying the thought forward much further than this, but set it adrift in a silence what the angel could then shape in whatever fashion he saw fit.

"Yes. Rather." Aziraphale gave a nervous chuckle before reaching up to glance his warm palm over the curve of Crowley's ever the warmer cheek. "Your face is _very_ red."

Crowley's as so described 'red face' scrunched together in embarrassed annoyance and he cuffed his fingers to the back of Aziraphale's wrist, not knocking so much as guiding the affectionate hand away.

"Shut up." He grumbled, doing an altogether far too terrible a job of looking nonchalant. There was a treacherous smile attempting to sneak on into the corners of his mouth, much the way a hungry child might endeavour to slink on out of their bedroom in the middle of the night to raid the cookie jar. His gaze dropped to survey the shiny linoleum between his paper wreathed shoes; a strange act for one such as him. To _avoid_ rather than _demand_ that eye contact. "And here's me thinking_ you_ were the one needed protecting from _me_. Seems I had you pegged all wrong." He paused, glancing briefly at Aziraphale's contrarily contented expression. He had half expected to have seen the angel morph drastically into wide-eyed, gawping apoplectic remorse, now that the moment had passed. "You... really meant it though... eh?"

Aziraphale's eyes flecked briefly to the sides; though his smile did not falter. He was _pondering_ the nature of the question, rather than sinking into a miasma of celestial based regret. Though given the fact that he was an angel, Crowley would hardly have been surprised if Aziraphale did in fact permit himself to founder beneath emotional quicksand with the same level of decorum a member of the Royal family demonstrates when greeting a political representative from a country of which they retained only limited vestiges of respect and civility. This was how in fact Crowley had played him when they had switched bodies. Composed, courageous, incontrovertibly classy. What the humans might have referred to as a 'gentleman's gentleman.' If he had been a man, that is.

"The, um... the words or the..." Aziraphale bounced a moment on his heels before returning his gaze to the demons. There was a softness in the bow of his brows; a dusting of vulnerability speckled through the lines of his forehead like arrow root crumbs. "-_the kiss?_"

"Both." Said Crowley, somewhat nonplussed that a distinction was required. Aziraphale gave a light chuckle, straightening up and placing his arms behind his back. Shoulders set square in their sockets, such that you could see his historic military training glint beneath the surface like the belly of a pertinent fish.

"I did."

The confirmation set quite a lot of feelings to swirling inside of Crowley. A great deal of these he would very much have liked to have acted on; in ways which would most definitely have seen the both of them marched off to PR and his work uniform all but ripped from his body (_and not in the good way_). But Crowley had not gotten as far as he had in this unpredictable world by being a fool.

Well... the jury was still out as to whether Crowley may in fact be considered a fool or not, but if he was indeed the Joker to have been slotted into the universal pack by some preternatural slight of hand, he was not a fool what acted without first exercising some avenue of caution.

Aziraphale had proven himself to be easily spooked by much less and far the more subtle declarations in the past. And he was still an angel, in spite of his secularization from Heaven's smudge free porcelain beset corridors. Angels could be a tricksy bunch and never the more idiotic then when it came to themselves.

"You're not just... saying and doing what you think you need to do? To make _me_ happy?"

Aziraphale had somewhat expected the question, for it had been precisely what Crowley had said only mere minutes earlier. It was a little frustrating for that reason, for how much reassurance was needed, given what they had just shared?

"Crowley. You really rather put far too much emphasis on my apparently needing to sacrifice my worth and values and body for your happiness." He chuckled lightly, raising his hands so that the palms were directed towards the ceiling. "Frankly my dear, I'm not that invested."

Some of the tension left Crowley's body at this and he loosed an involuntary chuckle in conjunction of it. "Well ain't _that_ a blessed relief." He eased slightly about Aziraphale, glancing towards the door and taking a few sharp sniffs in. Satisfied that a supplementary breach was not on the cards, he moved closer then to the angel. His eyes, insecure yet still and pining, peeked above the lenses of his glasses. "Mind if I... do it again? You know, just to uh... lock it in." He shrugged, wanting to make something in which he placed so much obvious stock, sound offhand. "So to speak?"

"I won't be getting you in trouble?"

"Oh, you got me into trouble a long time ago, angel." Crowley said, his smile as knowing as his words were truthful. "This would hardly be the first _or_ the last time, I wager."

Aziraphale, smiling gently, reached up to cup his hand once more to the side of Crowley's face. Crowley put his arms about him, a tenderness of embrace what left any of those they shared in days past, well and truly in the dust. The kiss was softer, more temperate. More _permanen_t. Crowley was slightly taller than Aziraphale, but he appeared to be getting shorter by the moment; sinking down into his knees, all but melting into the protective slips of his shoes. He sighed softly between the parting of their lips, all the tension he had been holding onto draining out of his muscles so that Aziraphale served much the purpose of a construction frame; keeping him standing in spite of all efforts to dissolve into nothingness.

It had been a long few months without talk, without touch, without _contact_. The saturation of it served as something of an overdose to the perishing senses. Aziraphale might have laughed at the punch drunk look on Crowley's face when they parted; a giddy smile he was attempting to quash out of existence by pulling his lips in tight. He surrendered however to the overwhelming draw of the angel's warmth and pressed his head to the side of Aziraphale's; who held him quite as tightly as he so desired in what time they'd spent apart. Crowley inhaled deeply of the scent of the angels neck, pressed his face in there and sheathing his eyes a moment. There was time for this. He would _make_ time, if need be.

"I missed you."

"As did I, my dear." Aziraphale caressed the line of Crowley's back with loving indifference to the damp patch of sweat what had formed on his work shirt. "You were well rather cruel, all things considered."

"I was confused." Crowley's words made a soft vibration against the side of his neck. "I was... scared I was about to lose you forever and I... I couldn't deal with hearing an answer I didn't want. It was easier to run."

"Is that why you stayed away?"

"_One_ of the reason's. Mainly, I was trying to figure out if I would be able to go on living without you." Crowley laughed humourlessly. "Apparently, I was doing a shithouse job of it."

"Well don't you feel awful silly now." Aziraphale turned and lent his lips to the side of Crowley's face. Felt the demon just about purr at the point of contact. "All this much to do about nothing."

Crowley pushed back from Aziraphale, just hard enough to make a point of it. The embrace had been blissful, but the angels words had managed to annoy him some. A sort of a playing down as to, what he felt were, very sensible reasons for his having done what he had done.

"Hardly _nothing_, angel. Quite a bit more than _nothing_. And hey, it's not like you were handling things well. You were still trying to convince yourself that we were cut and dry _friendsss_."

"Yes, well, if it helps to set your mind at ease." Aziraphale slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat and took out his rather old, trusty and ever more tattered wallet. With a flick of his wrist, he separated the leather halves to expose the plastic panel in which he had, until previously, stored his Frequent Diners Club card. He held it out to Crowley, indicating that he should take it. "There."

Demons never much liked to be caught in a moment of weakness. Crowley was hardly an exception. He might have been appreciably softer than the bulk of his kind, but emotional apertures offered far too much of a glimpse of an otherwise vulnerably underbelly. Exploitation was a readily accepted means of getting things done in Hell. One learned, as a result, to girder their steel at a moments notice. And steel came in many forms.

With Crowley it was a smile, a shrug, a clever turn of phrase, a motley of progressively convoluted bullshit what left the receiver of said excrement blinking and uncertain as to whether their queries had been answered at all.

In that moment, Crowley had barely strength with which to half heartedly muster his shields. What little he clung to was all but obliterated by the thing he held now in his trembling hands.

Aziraphale's wallet, the Frequent Diners Club card banished from the plastic photo sheathe and in its place, the picture Crowley himself had taken of the two of them together at the Ritz. Their very first meal of what was that; the first day of the rest of their lives.

"You've been stalking my social media, haven't you?" He said, not sounding nearly as cool as he had been intending. He was choking up some; shields well and truly dragging along the ground beside his hypothetical feet.

"Yes. I have." Aziraphale said, without a hint of shame concerns the matter. Something which warmed Crowley's heart for hearing it. "And... if such a thing should please you, I would be happy, with your assistance on the matter, to create a..." He lifted one brow enquiringly. "- the Facebook account?"

"Facebook, not_ the_ Facebook." Crowley said, still holding onto the wallet and staring contentedly at the photograph within the plastic window. Aziraphale could ever so lightly flap the tip of one of his manky wings and it would have knocked him clean off his feet, nothing surer. "Why do you want an account? Didn't think social media was really your thing."

"It's not." Aziraphale confessed, internally shuddering at the prospect of engaging with all that puerile twenty-first century folderol. _Desperate times._ "But I can see from what you put into those posts that you are... you're proud of me. You're proud of _us._" He set his hand to the underside of Crowley's wrist; passed the pad of his thumb over the vein lines there. "I... I don't want you to ever have to feel that things are..._ complicated_ between us." He witnessed Crowley's brows lifting meaningfully at this. Threading the connection. "I would be proud to share in that with you, my dear. To share what we have. Photographs... _certain_ memories." They both tittered at this one. "Times shared. To perhaps brag a little. Flaunt, as you might say."

"I really am good at flaunting." Crowley said, somewhat pointlessly. They both knew he could pull of a flaunt with such proficiency it would send a Victoria Secrets Runway model to shamefully binge eat three orange juice soaked cotton balls in her dressing room.

Crowley passed the wallet back, mustered his convictions somewhat and then leant in to plant a quick kiss to Aziraphale's lips. "Thanks. You know." He shrugged his shoulders articulately. The angel just smiled to see it. He was accustomed to the awkwardness.

"Just... out of curiosity," He did ask, tickled somewhat by the way in which Crowley was thrumming his fingertips against his bottom lip as though he might have been playing the flute. Obviously preoccupied by the still very new sensation of sharing a kiss. "What on earth did the young lady at the front desk mean when she said that someone might steal you out from _under_ me?"

Crowley pushed the lenses of his glasses down, flashing Aziraphale a look what comprised equal parts amusement and what he could only hope, might pass for flirtatious. If history had taught him one thing, it was that he was notoriously stunted so far as successfully conveying romantic intentions were concerned.

"What do you suppose it means?" He asked, smirking to see the penny literally drop in Aziraphale's innoxious little mind.

"Oh." The angel opined with an ever so embarrassed smile. Crowley indulged himself by stroking his thumb and fingers down either side of that wonderfully charming expression. It was a strange thing. His heart was still pounding in his chest but he felt more at ease and at peace then he could ever remember being.

The door was open.

He might have spent longer still just standing there, awash with the near debilitating feelings of happiness coursing through him. But there would be time for that later. Time in all the world, in fact. Right now, there was work to be done.

"Come on. Let me finish showing you around." He slid his fingers down off of Aziraphale's chin and stepped around him to make his way back towards the door. He chuckled to see the somewhat confused look the angel directed at him. "Oh yeah. Don't go thinking just because we made up and you lay a wet one on me means you're home free. You're still signed up for the day, sweetheart."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." Flustered, Aziraphale scooped up the armful of clothes he had left on the kitchen table and trailed Crowley out of the room. He found his eyes drifting to follow the sway of the demons hips as he walked.

The uniform wasn't exactly what you would call aesthetically pleasing, but Crowley still somehow managed to make it look good. Which wasn't saying much. This was a creature what could make a wet hessian sack look good. In fact, if his memory was serving correctly, Crowley had once been forced to wear a hessian sack for... oh, who the Hell really knew when it came to someone like Crowley? He had just as likely done it for his own amusement as for any other more meaningful reason.

_One hardly needs a clever turn of phrase,_ Aziraphale thought, _when they've got legs up to their face, the mind of an Aristotelian genius and cheekbones what could very well carve a sculpture of themselves._

_A tight little bottom hardly hurts matters either_, he mused, taking note of the way in which Crowley's was swishing back and forth in front of him and getting a good solid jab from the celestial failsafe's as a result. _Oh, this hardly seems fair. The sooner I can flex out these mental muscles, all the better. One shouldn't expect a slap to the back of the wrist every time one takes notice of a backside such as Crowley's. I'll be brain damaged, if that's the way it's going to play out._

Unaware of Aziraphale's internal struggle, Crowley wove his way towards the laundry room, stopping off at certain points along the way to point out things of particular interest and to introduce "Alex" to some of the other workers and residents.

He seemed in a particularly buoyant mood, Aziraphale observed, which was an emotion he did not often affiliate with what was a customarily curmudgeony demon. He had a smile on his face the whole time, even when just passing quietly through unoccupied spaces. Every so often he would flick a glance Aziraphale's way, do something particularly endearing such as bite the corner of his lip, before looking away again. A gesture ever so uniquely self-conscious and vulnerable.

Crowley was a creature who, in all the long time Aziraphale had known him, appeared to be quite as certain of his place in the world as a tree is aware of its place in the ground. To see him rendered so completely self-aware and nervous was both endearing and... empowering. It was a suitable turn about play, really; for all the times Crowley had unnerved him in the past. Aziraphale could hardly help but enjoy the unfamiliar position of being the one who was in control. The one with the power to sway.

* * *

"Oh, I've got to introduce you to Sylvia." Crowley was saying, breaking Aziraphale out of his thoughts as they rounded up on a nondescript door in the equally as nondescript hallway. "Lovely old dear."

"Oh, yes?"

"Yeah. Got a cute nickname for me and everything." Crowley rapped a knuckle against the door before easing it open a bare inch. He aligned his suspiciously smirking face with the gap he had made and called out: "Hey Sylvs! How ya doing today?"

The response was so prompt Aziraphale might have supposed that the unseen resident had been expecting the knock. There was a shrill scream of, _"FUCK OFF, FAGGOTTS!" _rounded off by what was incontestably a bedpan, thankfully empty, being pitched against the far side of the door. The door which Crowley slid neatly shut, unperturbed by a greeting what might have sent a more sensitive person quivering into group therapy and swanned off back down the hall, chuckling happily to himself as he went.

"Ahh... she's a lamb, that one."

Aziraphale, eyelids pinned back tightly in his skull, pondered as to whether his ears might have been due a syringing.

"Did-did she just call us...?"

"Yeah. It's an endearment. Great gal. The other day she actually hauled off and pitched her wet napkin at me. Missed by about _that_ much." Crowley used his thumb and index finger to indicate a space in which even a malnourished nat might have difficulty navigating. "She'd be a heck of a bowler if Hell ever got round to putting together that cricket team they've been banging on about. Oh. Just a minute."

He paused, setting his hands out front of himself and smiling in what Aziraphale thought to be a somewhat creepily munificent manner as an elderly woman in a paisley dress was guided down the hall in their direction. Crowley waited until she was about five or so feet away before speaking.

"Hey there Josie. How you doing today, pet?"

_Pet?_ Aziraphale thought, pulling a face at Crowley who did not pay it the slightest lick of attention._ Just when did he go and get all smarmy and saccharine? Outside of addressing one of his Hellish superiors, that is?_

The elderly woman smiled in a way which even an angel could attest to as being predatory. She didn't seem to pick up on anything being out of sorts concerns Crowley's tone, so Aziraphale surmised that it was his having known the demon as long as he had what rendered his suddenly affable poise as unnerving.

"Better for seeing you, dear." Said Josie, who looked to Crowley as a hungry dog might eye the fridge in which it knew that its food was kept, right before lending their unclipped paw to the side of the stainless steel. Aziraphale experienced a strange and sudden urge to unhitch his wings and wrap them about Crowley in a protective cacoon; being far too readily acquainted with this woman's manner of expression and knowing it entirely to match that which he himself wore when about to dig his fork into a wedge of cheese cake.

"Josie, Miranda, (_Aziraphale surmised this to be the name of the worker who was supporting the aforementioned resident_) this is Alex." Crowley, patently unconcerned with his near acquaintance with metaphorical devouring, gestured to the angel, who managed as always to bring a smile into what he felt was an otherwise strained expression. "He's going to be working in the kitchen today."

"Hello Miranda. Josie. Lovely to meet you." Aziraphale said in way of greeting. Josie pinched her eyes yet tighter still; inviting ever the more murders of crows feet into the corners and stared at Aziraphale as though he were perched on a distant foggy moar, as opposed to the six or so feet away that he actually was.

"Oh... well don't you have the most_ beautiful_ eyes." She remarked, to which Aziraphale immediately softened.

"Oh, isn't that kind." He murmured, exchanging a glance with Crowley who flattered him all the further with an approving nod. Perhaps this Josie was not quite so rapacious as he had earlier assumed. "Thank you, my dear lady."

"And so fat!"

Aziraphale did his utmost to affect poise which he might have marshalled all the more effectively if not for Crowley's barely smothered snickers off somewhere to the left. "Oh. Yes, thank you."

"And your nose... it's very big, isn't it?"

"Please, my dear. You may stop with the compliments whenever you like."

"Come on now Josie." Said Miranda, who looked every bit as amused as Crowley but going to much greater strains to stifle it. "Alex needs to be getting to work."

"_Watch your arse with this one._" Crowley hissed from the side of his mouth. Aziraphale glimpsed movement from the corner of his eyes and saw the demon swish his hands back in behind himself, fanning them out to cover his bottom.

"Cover my-?" He had not been quick enough and as such had rendered himself the recipient of a prize in the form of Josie laying her palsied hand sharply to the curve of his right buttock. Aziraphale's eyes bulged for the second most time in five minutes, his mouth dropping open so that it was quite as wide and as round as the bottom of a tea cup. Crowley glanced back over his shoulder, smiling like a snake.

"Didn't even try for me today. She must like you."

"Yes. In spite of my being fat and having a big nose." Aziraphale permitted himself the slightest of grouches whilst rubbing at the stinging patch on his bottom. He had supposed geriatrics to lack a certain strength, giving the natural degradation of their bones and muscles. Why then did so many of them in the Grange Estate have a wrist strength what might have rivalled a single male university student in the prime of video game preoccupation, telephone device texting and chronic masturbatory practices?

"Don't let it worry you." Crowley, chuckling still as he continued his cheerful saunter up alone the senescent hallway. "She just talks a lot of faff, that one. Told me, first time we met, that I had a 'mean mouth'. Can you believe it?" He lowered his glasses just enough to throw a wink back over his shoulder. "Right about you having pretty eyes though."

"Oh, hush." Aziraphale said, though the look they passed between them now was predicated by the understanding that he had been not so secretly pleased to hear it. The moment stretched a little and Crowley was visited once more by the urge to press himself into Aziraphale's arms. Seek his kiss, let their passions potentially catapult them through the thin, plaster rendering bordering the halls with much the same tenacity as _Papier Mache_ clings to the outside of an economy brand balloon. He felt very professional for resisting it. Less happy, mind. But professional.

There was a lot to be said for being professional. He could not quite recall at that moment why it was in fact a good thing. (Good things actually mattering. How was that for a turn about of the books?)

A suitable distraction came in the form of a door number he was genuinely pleased to wander up on. He tapped his knuckles smartly to the festy, swamp green painted wood; a colour that some frontal lobe impaired interior designer must have convinced themselves, and equally itinerate others, was a soothing colour when viewed by the oft deteriating eyes of England's aging population.

"Gotta introduce you to Gretchen. Gretchen's the best. You remember Gretchen?"

Aziraphale felt the unfamiliar strain creep on up into his otherwise warm and genuine smile again. "Yes. I recall." He said, remembering Gretchen all too keenly as the charge who Crowley had whisked off to the Ritz, had danced with at said Ritz. The Gretchen who spoke _French_; Aziraphale's incontestably least favourite language. (Not out of any anachronous feelings of distaste so far as France was concerned, of course. But for the simple fact that it was the language he did, for whatever the reason, find the very most difficult to wrap his tongue around).

"Don't tell the others, but she's my favourite." Crowley used his fist now to produce a louder knock, before opening the door with what Aziraphale took to be the utmost care and consideration. It did fracture through some of the inconversant feelings of malcontent Aziraphale was nursing; to see the demon acting so courteously. "Gretchen? Better throw your clothes on love, I've got a man with me who's never seen a naked woman before!"

Aziraphale scoffed, possessing no pride in the matter but hardly in the practice of denouncing the truth of it. "You fail to recall a certain garden in which I was partly charged with the watching over of a pair of very much naked humans. Let us say nothing of the years following. 39 AD springs to mind..."

Crowley hissed air sharply from between his teeth. Of course there was none, sans the collective majority of the twentieth and twenty-first century what was as proficient with the oversaturation of the visceral senses as there had been Emperor Caligula. It had been too much, even where Crowley was concerned. There were only so many orgies you could politely decline the invitation of before you rendered yourself a target of political unrest. Though Aziraphale had enjoyed the influx of new exotic eateries and their even more exotic fair. The oysters alone had been almost worth the up skirting.

"Good point." He acquiesced, easing himself in around the door jam and stepping into Gretchen's room. The bed was neatly made and her wheelchair was set still to the right of it. This struck Crowley as odd, because Gretchen was not able to leave the room without the assistance of her wheelchair. He checked the bathroom quickly, because she could hobble on in there without any help (and was often stubborn enough to do so) but this was empty as well.

"Um... look, just need to check something." He said, for the first time that morning properly focused on his workplace duties. He gestured for Aziraphale to follow him and made tracks for the nurses station.

A woman named Rhonda had been put in charge of that particular section of the ward that day and it was she what swept her eyes a little curtly towards Crowley as he rounded up. She was one of the few there who hadn't warmed to him over the past two months; little that he could care sans universal approval. Plenty the more dangerous and more limb rendering capable people what held him in contempt. What was one little human female whose greatest physical offense was in somehow managing to render her coral pink lips into a remarkable effigy of a frightened cats arsehole?

"Rhonda. Hey. Nice lip balm." Crowley's attempts at smarming something other than an erstwhile sigh from the woman bombed with ever the same dedication to insufficiency as 'Peter Max' itself. "Look, just wanted to check in on Gretchen. She wasn't in her room. Do we know if she took morning meds, or not?"

"You weren't told in handover?" Rhonda continued to fetter annoyance into every task she was undertaking with the somewhat more professional proficiency of a sausage maker. Interacting with Crowley appeared to be particularly high today on her list of 'Things I really can't be bolloxed with and wouldn't be bolloxed with, even if it were in my pay cheque to be bolloxed with. "All that fuss with Jeanie's baby and work flies right on out the window." She granted him the somewhat begrudged courtesy of glancing up from her game of 'Farm Life'-something or rather. Crowley hadn't really been meaning to catch it. "Gretchen started experiencing chest pains during the night."

Crowley felt something cold claw at his own chest. Something dimly familiar to what he had experienced when rocketing up to Aziraphale's bookshop only to find it on fire.

"Oh."

"She was taken to emergency and they currently have her in for cardiac observation."

Crowley was aware of Aziraphale having pressed a hand to his arm, just where a bicep might otherwise have been. He wanted to reach up and take his fingers between his own; anchor himself down a little in the wake of the unaccustomed concern he had been feeling. He didn't dare. Not with one of his errant detractors blinking their fake (partway peeling) eyelashes up at him.

"Is she okay?"

Rhonda could not have looked more the exhausted by the line of questioning than if she had been the United States President fielding enquiries about unsolicited political pay rises and personal thoughts of female reproductive rights. "We'll know more shortly. Rita will be ringing in regularly to touch base. The hospital advised they would be in contact themselves if there were any changes for the worse."

"Well, is any one with her?" Crowley himself had started to feel entirely like one of those journalists that simply refused to avow their line of questioning, in spite of the Presidential security teams visual assurances that they really ought to just fuck off. "She doesn't have any next of kin. I could go in?"

"Boundaries, Anthony."

"She might be frightened by herself." Anthony J. Crowley could give a flying rodents hairy left bollock as to whether boundaries might present an issue or otherwise. He had grown fond of Gretchen in the time he had spent in the Grange. She had been kind of like he imagined his own mother might have been; if the Almighty had not been the otherwise closest approximation. He did however fancy his own hypothetical mother to have been far the more mouthy, cheeky and crotchety. Just like Gretchen.

"This is not the first time that this has happened." Rhonda said with the testy tone of one whom was hankering to get their simulated cows back to munching whatever simulated straw they might well have needed to garner the next collection of simulated farmers tokens. "Gretchen is very practiced at it by now, I can assure you. Now, if you want to visit her in your own time, that's your decision, but right now you are on the clock and we need you focused. Plenty more people that still need your help right here and now."

"It's all right, dear." Aziraphale said supportively, rubbing Crowley's arm through the sleeve of his work shirt. The material 'crinkle-crunkled' beneath the pressure. "We can pop in to visit her after you finish your shift, if you like."

"... okay. Yeah, I got it." It was difficult to give someone a pointed look when you were deliberately attempting to keep your eyes hidden, but Crowley attempted to all the same. "Can you let me know as soon as you hear anything?"

"That's what I do." Said Rhonda with a differential grunt, returning her attention to far the more important matters. Crowley left her to her computer generated manure and duck spawning duties (thought not without first a snapping of his fingers what rendered her simulated chickens unable to lay eggs) and turned and marched away from the desk, his thoughts and emotions racing with an array of things he was only used to being affiliated with Aziraphale. Well... not so strong as that, of course. The worry though. The gnawing at the corners of his mind...

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asked, trapping along in his wake. His tone was as caring and soft as it most usually was and Crowley felt such a resplendent surge of gratitude for the angel that he almost turned on the spot and buried himself right on up in the tattered waistcoat a while.

But because he was Crowley, he shelved the desire with the practice of one whom had long since attained a level of skill aspired to by world class professionals and omitted an ever so refined 'pfft' of the lower lip.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine. Besides, she's right, old Rhonda. Still plenty more folks round here needing me fightin' fit. Best be getting you over to the laundry room." He smirked over his shoulder at the angel's tranquil, very soon to be rather rankled, expression. "Whip you out of those duds."

* * *

**~X~**

The phone in Aziraphale's bookshop had been ringing off of the hook much of the morning. Some of these calls were as the result of some rather disgruntled clientele who might have been seeking out and or anticipating the arrival of a certain order. They might have left a message, but Aziraphale had never deigned to purchase an answering machine. His phone itself was far too antiquated to have a voice mail system installed and so, a few select and very much likely pretentious bibliophiles were left wanting. Something any frequent purveyors of A.Z Fell & Co's 's really ought to have anticipated going in. This was a man who all but disappeared in between the tiny spaces of his bookshelves in a bid to avoid having to sell any of the tomes what rested upon them.

The other calls had been from the likes of two increasingly frustrated angel's; who had gone through so many magically conjured coins that the public phone booth into which they had forcibly squeezed themselves, had begun to lean suspiciously to one side.

But of course, Aziraphale was in no position to be answering his phone. He was in an altogether different position. A pants free position.

Well, at least until he had pulled on the pair of which he had been provided, that is.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N: **I realized just last night what a truly privileged position I am in when it comes to my husband. He's so wonderfully supportive around my writing fanfiction, even when I turn into an absolute beast whilst writing it.

He never uses it against me, gets stuck into me about it or insist that I ever stop or do something original. He's very chill like that, and apparently, this is not the same treatment that a lot of other people receive from their partners when writing fanfiction. Which genuinely breaks my heart, because yes; fanfiction can be a time and energy consuming hobby. It can also make us sad, tired, frustrated and it can even be demoralizing at times. But we stick at it because we have a story we would like to share. It makes us happy, in our own weird way. And we LOVE writing. We love expanding upon worlds and characters that we feel a passion for. We wanna breathe a bit more life into his world, keep the wheels spinning just that little while longer.

I feel very fortunate for a lot of things. I'm fortunate I have a husband who is relaxed and supportive around my hobbies. I'm fortunate not to be part of a toxic fandom. And I'm very fortunate to have such lovely readers :)

If you enjoyed and feel comfortable letting me know why, have at that comments box. Or groin-kick those Follows and Favourites buttons so you can join the crazy train! Thanks as always for your time, lovely people and I hope to see you in the next update!

All my infernal love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: **Welcome back everybody :) I have nothing in the way of a Good Omen's-ervation to supply to you today, gentle readers; simply a continuation on of the story! Thanks as always to all you wonderful human beings for sharing this journey with me; for the reviews, the follows, the favourites, the time spent reading what I put out there! I hope you enjoy the updates (those of you who are newer readers) and to those of you guys still waiting on the new stuff, all I can say is that I am writing it and by the time the subdividing is done, it should be all geared to be posted!

* * *

**~X~**

_**~Tuesday, April 9th - 2019~**_

_**The Grange Estate Nursing home - London Suburbia**_

Aziraphale had once set fire to Crowley's induction cook top trying to make an omelette.

It had been the morning following the Armage-Don't-even-bother. He and Crowley had, by that stage, already effected a successful body switch and the latter had left to check on matters at the assumed to be gutted bookshop. Aziraphale, in rather the poorer state of mind pertaining to aforementioned nihilistic annihilation of what little he held dear, hadn't bothered with the banal task of sobering up the night before and was forced then to nurse the consequences.

He was headachy and peckish. Nothing like a full stomach (Well, Crowley's full stomach) to take the edge off of hangovers and tumultuous heartbreaks alike.

He had gotten distracted. He had been in Crowley's body, after all. There had been quite a bit to be distracted by. The ridiculous length of the legs, the altered centre of gravity, the equally absurd tightness of the pants. The...design of the body, overall. Crowley's organs would interject on occasion with some well rather worrying noises. His kidneys in particular seemed to complain more than an elderly woman waiting in line for her prescription at the discount drug store. Silly demon didn't sober up enough obviously, and now his human body was starting to wear some of the long term side effects.

Aziraphale remembered spending far too long with what you would suppose to be more innocuous observations. Gazing at Crowley's nails, the length and shape of his long fingers, the slender intonation of his wrists. He caressed the knuckles, the backs of each hand. Examined his jaw line, noting how much more definition it possessed whence compared to his own.

He might have admired further still, if not for the scent of burned egg reaching his now the far more sensitive nose and that of the even more sensitive vent of the kitchen adjacent smoke detector.

Delicately put; Aziraphale was not a good cook. Neither, for that matter, was Crowley. They were the sorts of creatures who, over their vast centuries spent on earth, preferred for their food to be prepared for them; giving time over instead for the predominant focus of enjoyment and conversation. One of them might in fact have been a good cook with some practice; who's to say? Neither seemed particularly fussed with attempting to find out.

Aziraphale, such as with most things, preferred to hand over control of his meals to the professionals; so as to ensure he would have the most venerable experience possible whence dining. And Crowley was hardly what you might call domicile. A kitchen, to him, was a place where one went to fetch a glass and pour whatever was chilling from the fridge into said glass. Not to hang around flicking spices into bubbling cauldron's, spin a whisk about some dooey concoction and fluff oven fumes into your nostrils whilst espousing your fingertips to your lips and 'mwaa-ing' your pretentious, culinary prowess.

In so saying, when Aziraphale emerged from the laundry room, partway draped in the ever more brittle version of the Grange Estate's cooks uniform, he could not have looked more the disturbed than if he were on the verge of an unscheduled and entirely unappreciated proctology exam. He expressed such concerns to Crowley, misaligning his buttons a number of times in the process of doing so.

"There's a lot riding on this. This is your workplace and your colleagues clearly think highly of you and I shouldn't want to let you down. Even by association."

"Oh, shush, you couldn't let me down if you tried." Crowley said softly, smiling to see the angel in such a considerately flustered state. "Even if you poisoned them I should think it a remarkable achievement."

"Well, that's precisely what I will be trying to avoid, thank you!" Aziraphale blurted, taking note of the mess he'd made of his jacket and just about ripping all the buttons out from the cheaply stitched seams as he fussily separated the halves. Crowley caught a brief glimpse of pristine white singlet ensconced across a broad chest and round belly and allowed himself room in which to enjoy it. What the fuck, he was obviously allowed now.

"You could just miracle up the food to something of a substandard level. That's what I've been doing."

Aziraphale paused a moment, four buttons in and enjoying somewhat more success in fitting them where they did in fact require fitting. "You've been using magic to improve the residents meals?" He asked.

"Just... improve the taste, make it a little richer, that sort of thing." Said Crowley, differentially. He was still a little distracted by that earlier glimpse. A glimpse that was helping in formulating a number of tentative future focused fantasies which would serve to keep him occupied in his otherwise more reflective of moments. "Oldies have been loving life since I've been here, I can tell you that."

"Well... well, it's a very kind thought, darling," Aziraphale said, doing up the last of his buttons and straightening his collar. He failed to witness Crowley's face all about melting into his shoulder at being referred to as 'darling'. "But I think you had best stop."

The demon could not have looked more the confused then if he had been asked fashion a fighter jet out of instant custard. "Why?"

"There's a reason as to why food is blander in places such as this." Aziraphale explained, straightening out his sleeves and adjusting what aspects of his 'uniform' required adjusting. "Elderly humans have specific health related concerns, dietary requirements. Aged organs, high blood pressure, cholesterol, diabetes, heart conditions, so on and so forth. Rich food could potentially exacerbate any number of those things. "

"Oh. I didn't even think about that..." Crowley appeared genuinely concerned for the degree of harm he might have, for the once, unintentionally perpetuated. Aziraphale looked at him sympathetically, understanding full well that for perhaps the first time in his life, Crowley had set out to try and do something kind in the service of humanity, only to have it seemingly thrown back in his face.

He took the demon's hand up between his own and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Perhaps just leave the food alone for now." He offered a loving smile, warming the further still at the look of pained consternation crossing Crowley's face.

"But they must've gotten used to the food tasting better..."

"Well, they'll be in for a very rude awakening once I'm set to work in that dreadful closeted little kitchen." Aziraphale groaned, rolling his eyes back in his head. "The stupid situations I land myself in-"

"-never cease to amaze, angel." Crowley rounded off, keeping a hold of Aziraphale's hand still. He passed his thumb over one of the knuckles; much as he had that night so many months back when he had been grooming the angel's wings. Geez, to think what condition they must have been after going so long without attention. "I'm starting to think myself properly flattered to see what effort you've gone to, just to have a conversation with me. You could have dropped in the sandwich and bailed me up in the hall, rather than Miracling a stomach bug into the poor cook and spending the rest of the day poisoning pensioners."

"Well I knew that if I was assigned to work here that I'd be on site all day and you would be hard pressed to avoid me." Aziraphale gave a somewhat guilty glance off to the side. "If I had known we might have resolved our concerns so quickly, perhaps I wouldn't have bothered."

"This is hardly the _Bastille_. And you're hardly beholden to Heaven, anymore. You could just use another miracle. Have the cook show back up and take your leave." Crowley pouted his lips in what the angel took to be a provocatively teasing manner, neither of them the least aware of the aforementioned cook currently being hooked up to a drip and in no fit state to do anything other than pray for a quick and merciful death. "Promise I won't get crabby with you between now and close of business."

"As you said, we don't quite know how much magic we may have left to us, Crowley. I don't want to be wasting it on things that... may not be one hundred percent life or death." He passed his hand briefly down the length of the demons arm. It was getting easier by the moment, the touching. It did in fact make him feel a fool for having waited so long. "Besides... you were brave enough to join up with an unknown work place and put yourself out of your comfort zone. Surely I am capable of giving it at least one day." He took Crowley's fingers between his own. Gave them a squeeze which rent more pleasure through him than barbs. "And I could hardly abandon you. Not when you're waiting on news of your dear Gretchen."

"Good timing on your part." Said Crowley ironically, slipping his hand out of Aziraphale's and using both then to straighten the halves of the angel's shirt. The shirt was as straight as it really rather needed to be, but that meant nothing to a demon what needed to be close and needed still an excuse for being so. "It's all right. The cooking stuff, I mean. We'll work it out."

"You'll help?"

"Of course I'll help. Can't have you killing off all my oldies, after all. I'd have to find another job." Crowley made use of the shirt halves as something of a winch, easing himself in, head down until the very last moment in which he lifted his chin and glanced his lips quickly against Aziraphale's. He went a little red still, which amused an angel who, in spite of the stinging of those terrible ethereal nettles, felt somewhat the more at earthly peace with the act. "Still... trying to get used to that."

"I know." Said Aziraphale, absolving himself somewhat of his earlier urges by glancing his hand to the curve of Crowley's hip. It might well have been a bad idea. The predominantly tender touch beckoned ever closer a more primitive desire; one which urged him to ease that hand about, take more than just that hip in the clutch of his palm and fingers. To take and to squeeze...

Aziraphale shook the thought away. "Though I do find I'm rather not... opposed to it."

"Small mercy, that." Crowley looked much as though he might have sensed to where the angels' mind had briefly strayed but chose not to play into it. He stepped back, glanced his eyes up and down Aziraphale's crisply smocked body and snickered indulgently to himself. "You look like one of those little cartoon chef's they make kitchen ornaments out of. Just need that moustache you pencil on for your magic tricks."

"You are so not worth it." Aziraphale grumbled, aware that even in the midst of all that grumbling, that he was sincerely in one of the least irritated moods in which he had cause to find himself. The situation was ludicrous, as were so many of the situations in which he had inevitably landed himself. But something altogether wondrous had come of this particular ridiculous situation. A shifting forwards of circumstances, an encapsulation of feelings and of opportunities what had been held at bay for many thousands of years. It was all very new and very frightening and very much needed.

"I _am_." Crowley drawled, smirking as he smacked his hand to Aziraphale's rump and sauntered off back towards the kitchen area. "Come on. Let's get your paperwork sorted and shift your butt into the kitchen."

Aziraphale followed, rubbing at his buttocks for what was the second time in a so far short a morning. He hadn't minded the smack from Crowley, however. Certainly a great deal nicer (and less violent) than the one he had received from Josie.

* * *

**A dank office somewhere in the bowels of Hell...**

Hastur was a demon of relatively simple needs and wants.

That was one of the things he liked so much about the fourteenth century. Any century, in fact, before the invention of that old bugaboo; electricity. Everything had gotten so much more needlessly complicated after that.

Live wires. Cars. Telephones. Internet. Indoor plumbing. Humans, it seemed, were just never satisfied with letting sleeping dogs lie. They always had to go and throw a spanner in the works.

Just when you thought you had gone and gotten your head around one new development, the sneaky bastards would go and trot out another, ever the more convoluted one. It was hard not to take it personally.

Hastur had his intermittent missions to earth, sowing discord and malcontent where required. He felt he took rather a more hands on approach then Crowley, which was hardly a surprise given recent developments. He had never lingered long; perhaps only to throw back a celebratory drink or buy a pouch of tobacco. Two of the human inventions he could actually get behind.

Hastur's needs were simple. Life, such as it was, was easier that way.

If there was a job needed doing, you did it. He took pleasure in the work that he did. If Crowley was a demon what derived pleasure from acts of mischief and quiet subterfuge, Hastur took enormous delight in the malignant, the cruel and the oft times dramatic.

There were so few pleasures in Hell. It was home. But it was still the veritable arsehole in the wider tableau of the collective body of the universe. Every tiny aspect of Hell was marked by some infinitesimal degree of frustration. Pipes only just repaired would split and take once more to viscous oozing. Vitamin D levels were always in decline. The halls were always more crowded than a shopping mall the weekend before Christmas. There was even the same ratio of prams: only in Hell they were filled with empty, tetanus laden tin cans and balls of tangled yarn. All of which squealed like frustrated infants overdue a bottle feed and would sometimes randomly upend themselves, so that you would trip on an rogue can on an escape mission and end up hurtling arse over tit and busting out an otherwise useful vertebrae.

This was the way it had always been. And Hastur had always been irritated by it. But that even of itself was quite simply the norm. You found your means to get by. You griped, you hissed, you took it out on a convenient Disposable were one within arms reach.

You got by.

Hastur was finding it difficult lately, to get by.

Too much time up top. It was the comparative factor what got you at days end. Grass is always greener, and all that.

Thing is, if you didn't bother with going and taking a look at said grass, you wouldn't know any better.

And Hastur would be the very last to admit it, but he found that he had rather enjoyed the past few months. The back and the forth from earth. The reconnaissance.

Even the angels.

"You... feelin any different, ya think?" He asked Dagon, having found himself begrudgingly stationed with a bucket beneath yet another dripping pipe. She glanced up from the perpetually misaligned In-Tray on her desk; papers having been shoved in sideways, upside down and improperly filled out.

"After what?" She flicked her head vaguely towards the ceiling. "Bein' up there, you mean?"

Hastur grunted, because really, what more a confirmation was needed?

Dagon thought on it a while, rolling her shoulder about and listening to the ball joint crackle like a seashell being crushed under the heel of a boot.

"Feels... a bit claustrophobic, all of a sudden." She admitted, as another of the Ever-Void bumped against the corner of her desk and set her snow globe to dangerously wobbling. It never worked when she shook it, but she was fond of it all the same. A memento from a job in Portugal that she had rather enjoyed. It had worked then. Hell had seen fit to stall its inner workings before too long. Much as it degraded everything it touched. "Like being able to flex my elbows occasionally without bumping them into any of these twits."

She gave the Ever-Void a boot what sent them off in some other meaningless direction. They were a nuisance and a terrifying reminder as to how close some of them had been to have never regained their faculties at all. But you put up with them because, well, they were still family.

Hastur moved the bucket a near infinitesimal inch and was rewarded for his efforts with the contents of the ceiling mounted pipe expunging muck over the majority of the desk he had been attempting to protect. It was enough to make him want to rip the symbiotic toad clean out of his own skull. If he wasn't half convinced that doing so would have devastated most of his brain in the process.

"Mother of...!" He swept most of the indistinguishable goop free with his ratty trench coat sleeve, adjusting the angle of the bucket so it sat in just the right spot. "Never thought much of the place, be honest." He said, in reference to the human world. It was strange in and of itself; the want to talk about it. Stranger still to speak about it with anyone other than Ligur. They were a pair what had shared a mutual appreciation for malice and this was about as solid a foundation for a relationship what you might otherwise find in Hell. "But compared to here..." He sneered, giving his sleeve a shake and sending stinking droplets flinging to every far corner of the room. They splattered off of Ever-Void alike, who paid them about as much mind as a passing cool breeze. "Least they got something decent to drink up there."

"True." Dagon remarked, pretending, as demons were so prone to doing, not to care. She herself was thinking much the same thing, however. And something worse still. A... feeling that for a few precious moments she had come in out of the cold and had been standing by a warm fire. Only to have the fire snuffed out.

It was the angels, she had realized. They were awful and pompous and detestable, but their Heavenly presence brought with them that ephemeral warmth, which was softer and kinder. It had quenched something in her that felt ever so much in desperate need of nourishment. A tiny part of her, a part which she was quickly growing to loathe, was anxious to return up top and breathe in a little more of that addictive aura of their celestial counterparts.

It was like those terrible human cravings. Dagon could understand how such a thing could take hold. The aching, clawing need for just a sliver of that easement superseded all else; such that she was finding it more the difficult to sort what was already unnecessarily complicated piles of putrid smelling, seeping and sometimes spontaneously combusting paperwork.

Hastur took an indolent sniff of his unsullied jacket sleeve. He never washed it and he wasn't much one to bathe if he could help it. The cloying sent of that stupid Seraphim's cologne lingered in the threads of eviscerated material.

When he sniffed, he'd discovered, the small ache what he had developed in his chest went away. He saw a picture in his very unimaginative mind; a picture of the Earth, of the bar and of a good tasting drink. Of cigarette smoke and joint custody of already too small seat cushions and air that was sometimes fresh and streets in which you could walk on occasion without someone bumping up into you.

Of not needing to march from pillar to post with a blessed bucket out in front of you all the time.

He took another sniff. And quietly wondered to himself what Lord Beelzebub's next instructions would be.

Eternity was a long time to spend in Hell.

And even a demon with needs quite as simple as Hastur's, wasn't sure just how much more of it he could take.

**~X~**

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**A/N: **I love fleshing out these characters :) Particularly Hastur, who I have such a overwhelming soft spot for. I think it was the wondrous shrieking he emitted when Ligur was killed, which cemented my undying love for eternity. Still makes me laugh every time I see that scene!

Feel as free to pop on over to the next update, dear readers! I hope to see you there! :)


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: **Welcome back, lovely readers! In recent times, I have joined up with r/fanfiction on reddit, where I've been learning a great deal in regards to improving my writing, and hopefully making this a better, more enjoyable read for you guys! It's been a very humbling experience, and I hope that I continue to improve all the time!

Part of the reason as to why this subdivision is taking longer than expected. I am editing as I am going along, trying to improve the story and get rid of all those things which can shit readers off. With the exception of my... boring writing... which I'm certain already shits readers off, but apart from that! All the other little annoying arse things that I can actually improve. I think I will always be boring, regardless of whatever work I put into a piece :P

Got another update for you, guys! Feel free so as to have a read and I will hopefully catch you on the far side! As always, if you have any questions or things you would like to point out, feel entirely free to fling them my way. I have about as much bite as a toothless sloth, and as much energy to boot, so please don't ever feel frightened to pull me up :)

* * *

**~X~**

_**~Tuesday, April 9th - 2019~**_

_**The Grange Estate Nursing home - London Suburbia**_

You might be forgiven for believing that Aziraphale and Crowley had in fact lived in something of domestic bliss for the better part of so many human appropriate years.

They certainly bickered as such. A bickering of which Crowley's colleagues found to be incomparably romantic and took then to wondering just when they themselves would stumble upon that same loving and comfortable dynamic in their own lives.

"You're cutting those chunks of carrot far too big." Aziraphale, crunchy uniform beset by a Thomas the Tank engine themed apron, now fancied himself acquainted enough with the cooking process to cast aspersions on Crowley's lacklustre technique. He found it came up wanting, so far as his now keen eye was concerned.

"They're not too big! They're fine." Crowley, having boggarted the indisputably more desired Stepford-wife-esque pink apron with complimentary frills, was starting to regret his offer to rescue Aziraphale for what he estimated to have been the three-thousandth time from self-induced embarrassment.

Aziraphale, he had long since decided, was just like all chef's everywhere; bossy, pompous and demeaning. He was glad he had snatched the pink apron off of him now. In spite of Aziraphale's repeated insistences that he was the more practiced at 'wearing frills'. _Well, this isn't the fifteen-hundreds any more, sir. And pink, like you said, really isn't your colour._

"You're going to end up choking these poor dears just like you do those innocent ducks at the park." Aziraphale looked the slightest bit squeamish, having just gouged some marks into the skin of a leg of lamb with an otherwise ineffectively dull knife. The lamb was to be prepared for the evenings meal, so time was rather the thankfully on his side.

He had already set down a layer of onions in the base of a baking paper lined oven tray and was currently rubbing a mixture of garlic, rosemary and salt and pepper into the stab marks. No, he could never cook his own food, he decided, swallowing back a gag that was almost about as meaty as the produce to which his rubber gloves were set. Preparing it was quite enough to sup him of whatever appetite he might otherwise have possessed.

"It's all just going to be boiled up and made soft anyway. Now stop nagging or I'll cut you."

Aziraphale paid this about as much mind as he might have done a knock from a Jehovah's witness. Though the Jehovah's witness was, by very definition of what they were, worlds more dangerous than Crowley could ever hope to be.

"Oh, you wouldn't."

"I bloody _would_." Said Crowley; grumpy, sullen, not even gesturing with the paring knife he held or being at all vaguely threatening with it.

They continued with their respective tasks in momentary silence. They were alone in the kitchen, Crowley having packed away all the groceries what had been earlier delivered and long since relieved of breakfast and washing duties. Appropriately enough, his set job for the day was to provide assistance to the cook; something of which his false credentials attributed to his being more than capable of doing. He had a food handling and health and hygiene certificate; both of which he had naturally miracled into being. He had sense at least to put on rubber gloves, which was about as far as his food preparation skill set naturally extended.

And, hey... not like there was anyone else was around to pass judgment on his very slow and very mediocre vegetable chopping methods. Other than Aziraphale. And Aziraphale was unequivocally just as crap at the task as he was.

Every once in a while one of the girls would see fit to drift in. They would pretend they were in there for some business or another. It was really just an excuse to snoop. Those who hadn't yet met 'Alex' used the opportunity to introduce themselves. Some were even polite enough to pretend as though a pairing what comprised the likes of Crowley and Aziraphale wasn't a visually jarring and seemingly unlikely prospect.

They all agreed that in spite of appearances, the couple were terribly romantic. Nothing said love quite like the threatening to slice someone from stem to stern whilst standing shoulder to shoulder over a leg of lamb and a medley of wilted sprouts and baby carrots.

Alice was very much looking forward to the staff parties. She hoped 'Anthony' would still be with them come Christmas time. 'Alex' would make a _perfect_ Father Christmas for their Secret Santa.

"_Baaa_." Crowley broke the silence with a sudden, seemingly pointed bleat. Aziraphale's hands flew up off of the prospective roast as though the fires of Hell had suddenly expunged themselves from the exsanguinated creatures pores.

"Oh, would you _please_ not do that! It wasn't funny the first time!"

"Just think..." Crowley said; his voice pining and malodorous. "Few days ago, that poor little chap was loving life. Kicking his back hooves up amongst the clover and the dandelions, the sun on his cherubic face-"

"Please stop, I'm_ begging_ you!" It was barely ten o'clock in the morning and Aziraphale already felt like he needed a drink. He was ever the more tempted to appropriate that cupcake from the breakroom fridge and snaffle it down like a truffle hunting hog. Anything to take the edge off of the terrible glean of guilt he was currently experiencing.

"- next thing you know, steel rod to the frontal lob,_ bang,_ mama sheep going '_What happened to little Eduardo? Why he was here but naught a second ago_.' And now one of his once carefree little back hoofs is being drenched in garlic and rosemary and tenderized by one of God's very own supposedly beneficent angels."

Aziraphale wrenched a tea towel with such violence from the handles of the oven that the door jolted open an inch and used said article to then deliver a stout smack to Crowley's backside. "I said-" He punctuated his words with another few good smacks that ratcheted off of Crowley's back, bottom and thighs alike. "- _STOP THAT!_"

"_**Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the earth...**_" Crowley sang, raising both hands towards the ceiling as though inviting down a divine light. He got another series of ever the sharper cracks from the towel for his efforts.

"This is hard enough as it is, dealing with a deceased animal, cut down before its' time!" Aziraphale whipped the towel over his shoulder, trying to maintain a stern demeanour as Crowley glanced his palms off of every stinging body part with a triumphant smile. "Oh, it's enough to make me never want to order lamb again. Poor..." His bottom lip gave the slightest, sentimental tremble. "... _poor_ little thing."

"Surprised you haven't tried to revive it yet." Crowley smirked, returning to his vegetable chopping duties with the look of one who was fully aware as to what dealing with a big hunk of meat was going to do to an angel. And had, of course, insisted on dealing with the vegetables anyway.

Hey, just because he was retired didn't mean he couldn't enjoy a bit of demonic bothering every once in a while. Keep the muscles toned and all of that.

"I feel it is perhaps a little beyond saving at this point." Aziraphale replied sarcastically, mustering some inner conviction and returning his hands to the lamb; a look on his face as though a ladle of bad wasabi had been slipped beneath his tongue. Crowley cast a, one might say, somewhat envious look at the piece of meat to which the angel's attentions were currently occupied.

"Don't see why you need to massage the thing. Bit of a moot point trying to relax it now."

Aziraphale twitched his head vaguely towards the cook book he had propped up in the corner of the meal prep station. He had found it beneath the kitchen bench, and though covered in grease stains, littered with dog ears what had splintered the paper and hailing from 1969, he still considered it more trustworthy than most any advice Crowley had been attempting to surreptitiously spoon feed him. "It's to make the skin crisp up or some nonsense."

"Feel like I'm the one that could make better use of your hands than a slab of dead meat." Crowley muttered, surprising himself just as much with the brazen words as Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who sighed in a way that set Crowley's heart to racing with panic and paused with his fingers slumped upon the rise of the lamb like a pair of swing dancing spiders having tapped out on the final set.

"Crowley-"

"Yeah. I'm hitting light speed, aren't I?" Crowley acknowledged, thinking that if nicking the tip off of one of his fingers might repair the faux paus, he would be willing to do so with only the slightest of ear drum shattering complaints.

"Rather." Aziraphale gave him a soft look; one hemmed by palpable apprehension. "I'm still... getting used to this. I'm on board, I'm just... I just need you to ease back a little. All right?"

"Of course. Sorry." Crowley felt almost faint with relief. It was still so terrifying; the thought that he might scare Aziraphale away for good. Might ruin yet that tentative progress what they had made so far. He needed to reign it in, or risk killing it on the vine. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Well... I mean, I did about the lamb, but not about the, uh-"

Aziraphale held up a hand temperately. "I know and it's all right. I'm sorry if I'm quashing your enthusiasm, in turn." He petted his fingers tenderly to the line of Crowley's jaw; a reassurance enough to send the demon to about melting from the inside out. "I _will_ get there." He returned his focus to the lamb, which most certainly was not about to get cooked on its own. Thought for a moment of the considerations he had been mulling over both the previous night and this morning and decided to just go ahead and provide some further clarity concerns his feelings. Crowley was very likely in need of it, after all. "My dear, I was thinking... you know, I really think we ought to go on that trip. The one you mentioned before. See the world."

A piece of carrot was sent skittling along the floor; having slipped from beneath the edge of the parring knife. Crowley hadn't made the least attempt to prevent its escape. He was far too preoccupied with staring at Aziraphale with his maw gaping like a ceramic clown at a state fair.

"What... you mean it?"

"Well, we've been in London so long." It was hard not to smile, to see a demon who spent so many of his idle hours invested heartily in the assurance of his own 'coolness' appearing so childishly hopeful. "Times have changed. We could go anywhere. Paris for example. Visit the _Louvre_."

Crowley thought on this a moment and his brows lifted smartly away from the bridge of his glasses as equally an austere excursion came to the forefront of his brilliant mind.

"We could spit off of the top of the Eiffel Tower."

"Picnic at the _Jardin du Luxembourg_." Contributed Aziraphale, wrinkling his nose a little at Crowley's rather _avante garde_ suggestion. Oh, he would go along for the ride, of course, if Crowley insisted on such a juvenile venture but he was hardly about to partake himself. Someone might get killed from that height.

"Take in a show at the _Palais Garnier._" Crowley suggested, and Aziraphale could tell, simply from the many years of association, that his eyes were brightening with excitement from behind his glasses. "Get well stewed trying to get through it without nodding off to sleep and snoring during the quiet sections."

"We could walk the _Pont Alexandre III_."

"Put a lock on that bridge; whatever it's called." Crowley snapped his fingers inconclusively. Somewhere off in the distance, the wires in Rhonda's computer had started to smoke suspiciously. "You know. The... bridge that people put... locks on."

"Oh, I think they stopped doing that."

"Did they?"

"Apparently the bridge was collapsing under the weight."

"Oh." Said Crowley thoughtfully. "... Well, that's sort of sweet. So much love it could sink a bridge. Poetic, really."

They shared a tentative, yet entirely appreciated romantic glance; perhaps both pondering just what six thousand years worth of love might weigh if put to the test. Crowley fancied it might very well be enough to sink whatever continent upon which the weighing was being conducted.

"We could visit the catacombs!" He interjected his own thoughts with another enthusiastic snap of the fingers. (A careful observer might yet take note of the small lick of flame erupting from the back of Rhonda's computer screen).

Aziraphale flinched at the reference, and with very good reason. Crowley had been instrumental in the design of the famous Catacombs of Paris; a design which, after his having shared the details with Aziraphale one chilly evening in 1773, had prompted the angel to devour two subsequent bottles of Gin (very popular at the time, much to his chagrin) in an effort to forget it.

Oh, Crowley had thought himself enormously clever with the whole garish affair, of course. He had even come up with the name_ Barriere d'Enfer_ for the gate from which the ossuary was constructed. 'Gate of Hell' (extraordinarily on the nose, so far as Aziraphale was concerned).

Much like the M25 London Orbital motorway (to which Crowley had received a glowing commendation) the Catacombs of Paris had been something of a cheeky nod to the Mesopotamian deity _Ninnghishidda_; a being what was sometimes evoked in ancient occult practices and by edgy teenagers with too much time on their hands and too much black nail polish, platform boots and liquid eyeliner for both theirs and anyone else's good.

What none of these otherwise well (or rather unwell) meaning individuals failed to appreciate however, was that it was Crowley who was in fact the aforementioned _Ninnghishidda._ It had been a nickname given to him by some boggle eyed locals who had caught him transmuting out of his snake form and then attempting to convert a buckskin of water into something far the more preferable for consumption. Mesopotamia, in its heyday, had nothing in the way of a nightlife and very limited means of entertainment at any hour of the day really. Crowley had spent a great deal of his time there, drinking whatever fermented juices he'd been able to lay his lips to. Simply as a means to efface the otherwise all consuming _boredom._

The reverence of the primitive humans had been amusing at first and then, as the weeks had gone on and the trail of mystified persons behind him increased by the two to threefold, (to the fold so great he cared to stop counting it), ever the more irritating.

Admittedly, flipping a boulder at the otherwise well intentioned morons was a_ little_ below the belt. But he had been in a foul mood. He was tired, thirsty, his hair was full of knots and braids that some of the disparate clingers on had wended through when he hadn't been paying close enough attention and he was fairly certain Mercury was in retrograde, which always made him feel particularly niggly. And really; company other than Aziraphale's could barely be tolerated for much longer than a few hours, before making him wish there was good, tall cliff with nice pointy rocks at the base of which he might saunter off into.

The catacombs of Paris replicated in near perfect detail (in so far as Crowley's memory could be trusted) the path he had taken in his efforts to shirk his would-be wide-eyed admirers across Mesopotamia. There was no power behind it; not like the low grade evil circumvented by the googolplex of pissed off drivers forced to rumble their way about the M25 on a much begrudged daily basis. The design of the Catacombs had been simply something that rather had amused Crowley; a pointed poke at things having otherwise requiring a secret meaning which was somehow more poignant than the overall sum of its parts.

That had of course been long before the design of the M25 and its alliteration to the Dark Priesthood of Mu set up shop in his Machiavellian little mind. Perhaps he had lost something of his sense of irony as he had gotten older, who's to say?

"Oh, no. _Really?_" Aziraphale was groaning, having gone on a gleefully guided tour of the tombs in the times in which they were new and not finding it nearly so charming as Crowley seemed to insist that they were. It had smelt funny and it was dirty and cobwebby and... full of dead people. "Not those dreadful skull fringed catacombs, I fail to see just how you're so proud of that dreadful place."

"It's got an aesthetic." Crowley maintained; he himself having an appreciation of any aesthetic what comprised skulls, darkness, overall doom and gloom and clothing items what might be gleaned from a garage sale of a university student who had been a frequent purveyor of Hot Topic, in their teen years. "People love that sort of thing."

"It's spooky." Aziraphale contributed with a shudder. Crowley knew quite well just how Aziraphale felt about any place or locale that possessed so much as a snifter of 'spooky'. He had almost discorporated clean out of his skin whence attempting to navigate the Petrin Hill Mirror Maze in Prague, 1891 and that was simply from seeing his own reflection drastically contorted so that his eyes just about ballooned out of his skull. "I should think if we were going to Paris that we would potentially focus on traditionally _not_ spooky things."

"We would have a little bit of spooky, surely." Crowley grumbled, kicking the hunk of discarded carrot beneath the baseboard of the bench and returning to its mostly eviscerated companions upon the chopping board. "You got me going off to bloody picnic's and theatre shows, there's got to be room for something I would enjoy doing. It can't just all be about _you_."

"We could have dinner at _Le Meurice._" Aziraphale suggested, with a look which said he considered this quite enough of a concession. He had that self-same expression of dilated pupils and rosy cheeks that he reverted to whenever the thought of 'crepes' entered his little flock-haired noggin. "Dance at _Le Carmen_."

Crowley gave an amused snort as he piled not-so carefully divided hunks of carrot into a small saucepan. "Don't know if the gavotte would really take off at_ Le Carmen_ somehow, angel."

"Well... we'll plan ahead. Go in a couple of months. ... you could... teach me, by then." Aziraphale cast a little look Crowley's way. A visual appeal to interpret that 'could' as rather a more earnest 'please.' _'Please teach me. And please don't believe me when I make half... bottomed excuses as to why it would be a silly idea. Just persist. Please._'

Crowley was attempting to carve a wedge of pumpkin into smaller, more manageable pieces. It was a dicey (no pun intended) endeavour and so he had missed the appealing expression on Aziraphale's face. Which was a shame, because he would have undoubtedly melted like butter whence left on the kitchen bench all day by an inattentive husband.

"To _ballroom_ dance?" The demon scoffed and then jerked back from the bench with a sharp hiss, having narrowly avoided bringing the knife down on his fingers as the pumpkin leapt violently from one side to the other. "Not so flash myself, truth be told, angel."

"But you know the steps." Aziraphale persisted, aware as he was, that most demons danced with a skill what was most readily rivalled by drunk Caucasian women attempting to make their way down a narrow hallway to the club lavatory. What demons lacked in rhythm however, they more than made up for in obnoxious enthusiasm; such that it was a rare for a demon, even the more supposedly reposed of them, to find a means to resist in getting down to boogie.

Crowley was _far_ from an exception. Aziraphale had once, much to his own horror, observed Crowley dancing to the point of actually giving himself a cardiac arrest in the 1970's. Unlike most of the humans who had been surrounding him at the disco, Crowley had not in fact taken any illicit substances (his last little foray in the 1960's being quite as much fun as he cared for) but had simply been up and dancing for over eight hours straight.

He had done something similar in 1518 in France; transferring his own infectious energy to an entire village in Strasbourg and keeping the collective lot of them jiving for days on end. Quite a few people had died; Crowley very nearly being one of them. Aziraphale had been forced to restart his heart no less than three times. To which the stupid idiot got up and continued dancing in spite of Aziraphale's progressively hysterical entreaties to _stop, just __**STOP**__, YOU STUPID DEMON!_

Crowley had not been able to walk for some weeks afterwards. Even after Aziraphale had healed his feet and spent hours on end massaging the cramps out of his shins, calves and thighs alike. He'd had to piggyback him to the next village over, so that he was able to access the portal what at the time was able to return him to Hell.

And all for want of hearing a particularly 'jiffy' jingle on a Lira da Braccio.

"Nnhgh... yeah, I can do a box step, all right." Crowley conceded after a moments contemplation on the matter. Whether the box step was any more than a traditional Glasgow drunken two-step was up for debate. "Simple fox trot. Probably work that in somewhere." He paused a moment, chewed the corner of his lip. "... where else, you think?"

"In the world, you mean?" After Crowley gave a small nod of affirmation, Aziraphale got to thinking himself. "Well... anywhere. America. Japan. Australia."

Crowley perked up a little. He had lived in Australia a very short stint back in the early 1900's and was summarily called back to England as a result of his own observations detailing that Australian's 'really didn't need any help' from their side. Not from _either_ side, truth be told. The Australian's seemed a quaint, unrivalled exception in which good and bad were equally balanced. In other words, a considerable waste of time in so far as sending earth based agents to otherwise meddle.

Australian's loved their creature comforts; they loved to fight and to swear and to drink and to party and to eat and to toast themselves underneath the metaphorical surface of the sun. They had 'mateship' and 'knife fights' and as much love for their neighbour as hate for their neighbour. Made sense when you considered much of the continent had been occupied by the descendants of England's cast off criminals.

Crowley rather liked the place. He'd enjoyed his handful of years spent there, but was honestly relieved to return to England with his liver intact. His one attempt at instilling some meagre level of malaise amongst the populace was contributing to the recipe base for Vegemite. Turns out that the ineffably whacky Australian's had surprised him yet again by actually taking both proudly and patriotically to the repugnant muck. It had been the rest of the world what suffered when confronted with it. American's in particular, to which Crowley could only report feeling an inexorable sense of pride in a bad job done well.

He had received a commendation for this one, too.

"I could feed a kangaroo." He'd never had an opportunity, his previous visit. There'd been too much tempting to get done. All his own temptations had been forced to go by the wayside. Including visits to the wildlife parks, for which he still maintained a sense of deep and erstwhile regret and resentment. "They've got those little paws."

"They do have those little paws."

"And a pocket. Keep loose change in." Crowley stood up straighter, wearing an expression almost identical to that which Aziraphale donned whence thinking about crepes. "I could hold a _koala_. Try not to catch chlamydia. Swim in the Great barrier Reef. Try not to get manhandled by an octopus. And stung by jellyfish. ...And eaten by Great white sharks." He furrowed a brow, thinking on this in rather the more abject terms. "...Should we _really_ be going to Australia? I think our risk of discorporation is potentially higher. Plus... Australian sun. Hotter than Hell over there." He drew back his lips from his teeth, glancing at Aziraphale's perpetually pale and ever so typically English (though he was not and had never actually been in fact, English) skin. "And you get burned so easily."

"Not all parts of Australia are hot." Said Aziraphale, looking slightly the more abashed by his being in possession of a complexion what rivalled that of Devonshire clotted cream. "And I've heard they have a lot of very good wines down south."

"That Shiraz we like comes from Australia." The Barossa valley Shiraz was a particularly nifty bouquet they often had on stock in the back room of the bookshop. Give Australian's their due, they bloody knew how to drink.

"It does. Plus they produce some very nice Sauvignon Blanc's and cheeses in the southernmost island." Aziraphale was starting to sound as though he might have swallowed a travel agencies catalogue and was currently burping up select portions of it. "The weather's a bit more clement too. Sort of like here, they say."

"Be worth a look. Good wine is definitely worth the risk of getting killed and eaten by most... everything." He gave up on the pumpkin for the moment, turning the entirety of his attention now to Aziraphale. "You're um... sure that you're...?"

Aziraphale gave him a supportive smile, pouring some boiling water into the base of the oven tray from the nearby jug. "Quite sure, yes. I'd have to close up the bookshop a while. You can take some time off from here I'm sure; if you give plenty of notice." He stretched tin-foil over the lamb, ensuring all the sides were tucked in; just as the book had told him. "I know they've come to depend on you awfully, but-"

"They'd be fine if I was dead." Crowley interjected so quickly that he embarrassed himself a little with his enthusiasm. He was happy though, and it seemed a rather okay thing; to permit himself that happiness, give himself over to it. Even if it made him look weak; exposed his belly. "So, we're uh... we're really doing this?"

He wanted it. Oh, so much. To go away. To be with Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone; looking out over the world they had watched grow old beneath the passing of their feet. To take stock of all the myriad changes; the shifting of the mountains, the stretching and rising of the seas, the saplings what had transcended into trees so high they seemed to scrape the very underside of the clouds towards which they eternally reached.

To walk amongst the bustling of the busy cities. Eat at a thousand expensive, snooty and even the more romantic candle sundered restaurants. Hold hands in the streets, lean into one another whilst passing through the busy herds of humans otherwise going about their business. Flutter at the casino's, clear out the buffets, wrap arms about shoulders whilst staring out over ever changing and morphing views. Whether it was buildings, lakes, mountains, oceans, pines, beaches, whatever.

And the nights... when the darkness crept in and encapsulated all corners of whatever rooms they might then find themselves in, then perhaps...

_Perhaps then your hands. Your hands upon and wended about my own. Pressed to the bare lines of my chest. The waylay of one another's curves and otherwise secret, untranslated spaces. Knowing and finding one another deeper still than even the softest spoken words might transgress..._

_Pants caught in ceiling fans, neighbours pounding on the walls, fingers clenched so tightly about elegantly carved bedheads that knuckles near about split the skin from beneath which they peaked..._

_Soft heady moans, fingertips tracing lines what beads of sweat had only just traversed, nails lending themselves to keening red trails along ribcages, hips and buttocks, kisses scented of red wine and champagne..._

_The feeling of you _inside_ of me..._

"You said it best yourself." Aziraphale was saying and Crowley shook himself forcefully out of a fantasy so raunchy he thought it might have put the _Marquis de Sade_ to blushing. "The world owes us a favour. High time we cashed in."

He smiled and was somewhat shocked as to witness the delicate look upon the demon's features; similar to that which he had seen less than an hour earlier in the break room. As though he were about to take to weeping at any given moment and Aziraphale could not imagine, for the eternal life of him, what he had said what might give cause to such dramatic a reaction.

"Are you all right?" He murmured, sliding the lamb into the oven, closing the door and setting the timer. He took the oven mitts off and set them aside, all so as to ensure there was no barrier between his bare hands and Crowley's when he took them up in his grasp and squeezed them. A loving gesture what just made it all the more difficult for Crowley to get his feelings under control.

"Yeah. Um." He put his head down, taking a few deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. It would simply not do to go to pieces so soon after having spectacularly dropping his bundle earlier. He did however make use of the breaths which to sniff for any lingering presences before leaning a little closer and lowering his voice so that the words he next spoke sounded all too appropriately snakey. "I uh... I really want to kissss you right now but I know what you said earlier about... easing up a bit."

Aziraphale, awash with quite as much love as he had ever known, raised Crowley's hands and pressed his lips to each of of his thumbs and then to his fingers. In that moment, he did not feel at all conflicted in what it was that he wanted to do. Desire, it seemed, worked effortlessly in conjunction with love. Giving it a solid leg up where required.

Aziraphale lent his kiss to the ridges of Crowley's knuckles, the backs of his fingers, the vein lines branching across his hands like overzealous spiders webs. He kissed his wrist, felt Crowley's palm canopy his cheek, gliding his thumb so close to his eye that it brushed the lashes. The demon watched, his own eyes bright and anticipatory. Impatient.

Their breaths were heavy when they came together; each uttering a contrarily soft, near identical murmur at the meeting of their lips. To Aziraphale the pain felt more the simple to ignore with each kiss that they shared. He focused instead on the pleasure; the wondrous closeness, the ease of simplicity what came with the sharing of an otherwise primitive act. Crowley once more appeared to be shrinking down into his shoe protectors. His palms had been forming somewhat distracted shapes to each of Aziraphale's shoulder blades.

"You're going to be the discorporation of me." He murmured, clearing his throat and managing to ease himself up and out of Aziraphale's embrace. With a smile, he returned his attentions to the vegetables, just about shearing off half of his fingernails with the knife before getting himself under control. "So, um... maybe we can start planning after my shift? Go to a travel agent or two. Get some ideas, ya know?"

"Sounds like a fine idea." Aziraphale said, amused. He felt still a little flustered himself, but Crowley seemed surprisingly bashful, even by comparison. He reminded himself that the demon had spent a great many years perfecting a, for the most part, unshakeable level of emotional control. Letting his guards down and allowing himself to be vulnerable was obviously difficult.

They glanced over at the sound of someone's knuckles striking the wood frame of the kitchen entryway. Rita was leaning in, her face giving nothing away.

"Could I get you to pop into the office for a moment, Anthony?" She made a prim gesture towards Aziraphale. "Alex, you can come along too."

Crowley waited until Rita had disappeared back across the hall and into the warren of her office before offloading a whistle what most working class persons would recognize as being a foreboder of troubling seas ahead.

"Uh-oh."

"Oh, I knew it." Aziraphale groaned, wiping down the bench top and wrenching the squeegee so hard that he simply expunged all the filth he had just sopped up back from whence it came. "Now I've gone and gotten you in trouble."

Crowley, untying his apron from about his midsection looked distracted. "Relax, she couldn't see anything from the office. Neither could the residents, we're in the kitchen." He hung up the apron and then quickly assisted with untying Aziraphale's, all but taking his head off with the neck strap in his anxious efforts to free it. "No one else is in here. Must be news about Gretchen."

He darted out through the kitchen entryway and Aziraphale, already so far accustomed to this, hurried to catch up. They stepped into Rita's office and she did in fact swish out from behind her desk to close the door behind them.

Rita's office was not, in all fairness of the description, very much of an office. More like a converted broom cupboard that she had attempted to spruce up by hanging pictures of seascapes and beaches from lands quite obviously not of England along the walls. Because nothing said Aruba quite like English suburbia.

She had quite a few photographs standing vigil on her desk. None of which contained cats, Crowley was surprised to find. Actual other human beings. Rita was smiling in some of them. Apparently, it was only his company with which she found to be rather frown inducing.

"I've just received some very sad news." Rita said, crossing back over to press her rather wide bottom to the side of her desk. She pressed her hands together, glanced down a moment and then looked up with such abruptness that Crowley knew, from so many years of interpreting facial expressions, that something _bad_ was coming. "It seems as though Gretchen suffered a complication whilst under observation. The staff at the hospital did their best, but unfortunately, they were not able to bring her back."

In the year 1924, Crowley had been staying a short stint in Canada. He could not quite recall as to what reason. But there had been a lake there; somewhere off nestled between the mountains as though they were the green capped confines of a picturesque tea cup.

The silence in that place had been absolute. He had been able to hear clearly, a small bird glancing their beak across the surface of the water in a bid to pick up an insect. When he had thrown a stone into the water, the sound seemed to resonate through the mountains as though it had been in fact a boulder shattering the crystal clean surface of a mirror. He remembered thinking Aziraphale would have loved it there, and made a vow so as to somehow trick him into hopping across the pond one day for a little sight seeing tour.

The silence what penetrated Crowley's mind following Rita's words was quite as all consuming as this mountain beset lake had been. He might yet have heard the scraping of that tiny birds beak, should it have dipped itself into Rita's long since abandoned water glass.

_Not able to bring her back..._

_Doesn't make any sense. I was talking with her just yesterday. She seemed fine. Old, but fine. She always seemed fine. Not talking funny, not complaining about anything, no more frail than usual. Still fierce and feisty and fighting fit._

_Gone?_

_Just like... that?_

"So, um..." Crowley shook his head, frowned. It seemed very much as though the water from that distant lake was swiftly filling his skull. His thoughts felt dim and numb and... heavy. He was barely aware of Aziraphale's hand finding place of purchase upon his arm. "Gretchen, she's uh... she-she died?"

Rita gave one of those very 'altogether' nods which came more from the chin then it did her neck "I'm afraid so. According to what I was told, it was very quick." She tiled her head at him and this much at least, seemed a genuinely remorseful gesture. "I am sorry. I know that you were fond of her. I've been letting staff know one at a time. Since you were the only one able to properly speak with her, I thought it would only be right to let you know first."

Crowley had ceased listening to the rationale of her reasoning some time back. He was feeling very strange, sort of vague and disconnected from his body. The pressure of Aziraphale's hand was moving up and down on the same patch of his arm and he focused on this, trying to use it as some anchor to bring the wayward ship that was his mind back to port.

He was aware of Aziraphale leading him to sit down in one of the chairs squeezed determinedly into the modest space of Rita's office. Aziraphale sat in the one opposite, taking Crowley's hand between his own and providing a gentle caress as Rita busied herself at the small tea station in the back corner. Crowley had not even been aware of having asked for tea. He supposed it was what the English knew best to do whenever a crisis struck; have a cup of tea and calm the fuck down.

"What about her... belongings?" He asked, suddenly. Rita glanced up from pouring hot water into a cup that might have once possessed a beautiful gold inlay, but had since faded so dramatically it left nothing but the flecked borders.

"Her belongings?"

"She didn't have any family. What happens to her stuff?"

Rita considered this a moment before turning back to tea pouring duties, offering only the slightest, inconsequential twitch of her lower lip. "Donated, where possible."

"Her photos... she had so many photo's..." Crowley murmured, staring back through the keyhole of his memory. He had gone through Gretchen's photographs with her on more than the one occasion. Discussed them at length; spoke of the adventures that she and her husband had had before he had passed. A whole life's worth of memories, just to be... discarded? "Do they just get thrown out? Into a landfill somewhere?"

"Don't worry about any of that right now." There was ever so slight an edge to Rita's tone. She whipped it out of back corner when she perceived a staff member to be giving themselves over to unsightly emotion. Crowley had yet to be a recipient. "Nothing's going anywhere anytime soon."

"She still at the hospital?" Of course, Crowley persisted. It was what he was known for, after all. It was what had seen him right on through to damnation and ever further onward, it seemed.

"Yes."

"What will happen to her?"

"She'll be picked up by the funeral home. They'll arrange for a casket and a burial."

"No funeral?" Crowley heard his voice starting to crack and attempted to clear it. It didn't help much. "She won't even have a _funeral_?"

Rita might not have had Crowley's six thousand years of lived experience but she was incontestably more adept at compartmentalizing her emotions than even this ageless demon. "We'll have a viewing and wake on her behalf, but there really are no funds with which to cover a funeral. She had no savings, no life insurance. She never placed much emphasis on that sort of thing." She handed Crowley a cup of tea; much too milky for his tastes and reeking suspiciously of English breakfast. His least favourite tea bag. "Here."

"I could..." Crowley's mind continued racing. Better then letting it slow down. Letting it feel. It had been... like with Aziraphale... better to do something._ Drown it_. "I mean, I uh... I have some money... could I pay? For the funeral, I mean."

Rita and Aziraphale looked at him with near matching expressions of pure, undiluted astonishment. For rather the different reasons but the shock registered the same on the emotional Richter scale.

"That would not be at all appropriate." Rita said after a moment, leaning back on the corner of her desk and folding her hands just over the rise of her crooked thigh. Her voice was not harsh, but eminently practical. "And besides, the costs would be exorbitant."

"I don't give a hootenanny about appropriate." Crowley said. Aziraphale was more often the stubborn one out of the two of them but it seemed Crowley could be just as pig headed when he wanted to be. "And I have an exorbitant amount of money. _Please_."

Two months he had taken care of Gretchen.

Two _months_.

Two months in which she had been better understood than the however many years she'd been shelved away in this stuffy old nursing home; subjected to a simple one or two word greeting and meeting of base needs.

Where did duty of care start and end?  
Did it end there at the hospital? When she died _alone_?

_'I've got nothing else. Might as well fuss over you.'_

Crowley felt a pain in his chest. The feeling that he had failed. _Failed, failed, FAILED._

The bookshop on fire. Aziraphale gone.

All that he loved just... _gone_.

It could all be... gone. Just like trying to grip onto a handful of sand. It slipped free, leaving only granules behind. Memories. Nothing tangible.

_Gone._

"I would be happy," He heard a voice say and realized that it was Aziraphale. Aziraphale forming words in a silence into which Crowley had been permitting himself to drown whilst otherwise staring in bung eyed absolution into his cup of too weak tea. "-to facilitate the cost and workings of the funeral. As a private citizen. That should absolve... Anthony of any boundary related issues."

"We couldn't ask that." Rita was saying and then Aziraphale replied that he was offering, that he and _Crowley (we)_ were offering. That Gretchen deserved the dignity of a decent funeral. And Crowley was staring at him, grateful, touched and more in love with his kindness and his warmth and his goodness by the moment and wanting to just hold him; disappear into him, curl up and let those arms enclose him on all sides.

Rita gave Aziraphale a card. It was the contact information of the funeral service the Grange Estate used. Rita suggested that if Aziraphale wished to do something out of his own pocket that he get in touch with them to make arrangements.

Aziraphale might have put the card into his wallet but doing so would have meant taking a hand away from Crowley to retrieve it. He contented himself with simply holding onto it for the time being. It was a small thing. But a small thing which meant _everything_ so far as Crowley was concerned. Further evidence still of the angel's enduring generosity and thoughtfulness.

"Now, on a more personal level," Rita eased herself forward so that she was closer to Crowley. Her tone was far the more temperate and genuine then he'd ever heard it and it made him feel as though he'd been a little unfair to keyhole her as being a particularly taciturn nurse ratchet type upon first impressions. "I want to make sure that you're all right, pet." She squeezed his shoulder and Crowley could tell that it was not her first time trotting out this particular talk. And not for want of it seeming practiced, but rather because she handled it such as she handled all tasks of which she undertook; authentically and professionally. "Death is an unfortunate occupational hazard in this industry. But it certainly doesn't make it any easier knowing it. What may help however is to know that Gretchen lived herself a long and happy life. She made the most of every opportunity. And I can see that you gave her some real joy in her final few months on earth. I'm sure she was grateful for your care and support."

"Support... yeah..." Crowley mused, watching the not yet dissolved white strains of milk drifting obsoletely across the surface of his tea. He became aware of another card being passed over to Aziraphale; his being the patently more 'pulled together' of the pair.

"Our staff do have six free sessions with the _Macintyre's_ counselling service. Anthony," He jerked his chin briefly at the sound of his ascribed name. "If you do feel as though you're not coping with things, just give them a call and you can see someone free of charge. Your partner can go along, if that helps."

He nodded, taking a sip of tea. It was much too weak. But what did that matter?

He'd enjoyed his little smoke breaks with Gretchen.

She'd been a good confidante. Kept shit real. Understood him in a way that not many, save Aziraphale, could. And Gretchen had only had the two months with which to acclimatize herself to Crowley's particular brand of strangeness.

_Gone._

_Like a stone sinking beneath the crystal clear surface of a silent lake._

_Like ...burning parchment._

"Thanks." He murmured, his tone just desolate sounding enough to rouse a wrist rub from Rita. She looked genuinely upset herself and Crowley remembered that she, of course, had known Gretchen far longer than he had. Rita too was mourning but doing her utmost to put the feelings of her staff first. His respect for her shot up more the higher for this. It certainly put the entirety of Hell's bureaucracy to shame by comparison.

"Why don't you head home for the day, mate? Give yourself some time?"

"Oh... no, no. It'll be okay." Crowley said, dismissively. Going home would be a bad idea. Especially now that Aziraphale was stuck here for the next how many hours labouring over a piece of meat he'd likely just as much burn as... well, burn. "You're understaffed today."

"We can always manage."

"You got lunch time meds. And the meals. Everyone else..."

"Tell you what," Rita it seemed was steadfast in her conviction to send Crowley packing and just as stubborn as he himself could be when she got it in her mind to do something. "How's about you just finish whatever duties you've been assigned and head off when your partner finishes at two?" She nodded her head towards Aziraphale, as though there was some question as to who said 'partner' was. "But if you feel as though you aren't coping, just let one of the staff know and head out early. Can you promise me that?"

"Yeah." Crowley took another sip of over milky tea. He knew full well that he wasn't about to go and head out early; not with Aziraphale still holding fort in the kitchen. It just seemed easier to agree with Rita now, rather than argue the rub.

"I'll keep an eye on him." Said the angel, a firm palm glancing up over the curve of Crowley's spine and then cupping to the back of his neck. He caressed him tenderly and Crowley once more fought the inappropriately undemonic urge to just collapse into him like a toppled tree. Well, not only was it undemonic but it was also unprofessional.

"Thank you. I'll let you sit for a moment. I need to let the rest of the staff know."

Rita stepped on past and out through the office door, closing it behind her. Crowley took another sip of tea. Wasn't at all sure why he bothered. It was something to do, he supposed.

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale murmured, his thumb rubbing circles into the soft ridge below Crowley's hairline. "I... I don't really know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything." Crowley put the tea up on the desk and reached out with his now free hand. He took up the one Aziraphale had set to his lap, wound their fingers together. "... sit with me a bit, yeah?"

_Gone._

_You're... gone._

"Of course." Aziraphale was saying, his arm dropped down to cosset Crowley's shoulders and pull him over to lean against him. Crowley let himself go, for it was easier than the pretence of_ not_ wanting to do so and set his cheek to Aziraphale's shoulder. He squeezed his hand tighter and took a deep breath in from his neck. He could smell his cologne and deeper still, that natural clean, new and wholesome scent what was ever so intrinsically Aziraphale. His hand was warm and he felt too the slight shifting of his fingers; the bones, the rising and flexing of the knuckles. The breaths in and out, of lungs that did not require oxygen but were put to practice all the same.

He was here. He was _still_ here.

Not gone.

Not _gone_.

**~X~**

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading, everyone! If you ever have any thoughts on the piece, or any questions, I encourage you to ask away. I hope you are all taking care of yourselves during this crazy time we're all going through!

All my love,

~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


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